


Unfinished Business

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Ghost Stan AU, He comes back, because ghost stan, the death is only kinda true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was never fair to Stan Pines. Why should the afterlife be any different? A Ghost Stan AU fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Must Have Been Something You Said

Stan Pines was happy.

His old body was pleasantly sore after spending the afternoon breaking things with the kids. The little vandals had impressed him with how quickly they'd been able to scale the fence outside of Mayor Cutebiker's mansion. He wasn't sure who'd called the cops on them, though he was pretty sure it hadn't been Tyler. Stan was certain he'd seen the new mayor watching their antics from his window and excitedly cheering them on, unmindful of the damage to his property they were causing. If Stan had to guess, he suspected it was probably some nosy neighbor. The Northwests lived up in that part of town, didn't they?

Well, no matter. They'd been long gone before the sirens reached the house and by tomorrow it would be forgotten. Still, better safe than sorry—Stan had taken the precaution of parking a little ways away from the Shack, at a clearing in the woods he used when he needed to lose someone who might be following them. The walk home would help the kids wind down before bed anyway. 

At the moment, they were both walking a few feet ahead of him, talking quickly and quietly between each other about something Stan couldn't make out. He decided not to eavesdrop. Let the little knuckleheads have their secrets...Stan just walked behind them and enjoyed the night air.

His peaceful mood was interrupted, however, when that night air was shattered by a distant growl.

“What was that?” Dipper asked.

“Trouble, probably.” Stan said. He glanced in the direction of the noise. It had sounded pretty far away...but the creatures in this forest could travel fast and Stan didn't want to take any chances. He placed a hand behind each twin and gently shoved them forward. “Let's pick up the pace a little, huh?” 

“I wonder if it's whatever's been leaving those strange tracks outside the Mystery Shack...” Dipper said, craning his neck backwards in hopes of catching a glimpse of it.

“Maybe it's a werewolf.” Mabel chimed in, bizarrely cheerful about the idea. “A _shirtless_ werewolf!”

“Eugh.” Stan frowned. “You kids get way too excited about this sort of thing. Come on, get a move on.” 

The kids complained a little as Stan continued to push them forward. He was starting to feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was being paranoid...he knew not _everything_ in these woods was dangerous. But it always seemed to be the dangerous ones that came out at night.

“It didn't even sound that close--” Dipper protested. “It's probably miles away, or---”

The ground shook with a second deafening roar. This one seemed to come from all around them, stopping them all in their tracks.

“...Or right behind us.” Dipper said.

“Run!” Stan shouted. “Move, move, move move move!”

Dipper and Mabel didn't need more encouragement than that. As they ran, a huge, broad-backed creature emerged from the forest. It loped behind them on six limbs, abnormally fast for a thing its size. Stan didn't get a good look at it in the moonlight, but despite it's mutated form and giant proportions something about it seemed insect-like. It was covered in yellow and black zig-zag patterns. What really caught Stan's eye was the stinger sticking out of its back, easily the size of a harpoon.

“It's territorial!” Dipper shouted. He'd pulled one of Ford's journals out from wherever it was he kept them and was waving it around, pointing at one of the open pages. “Once it's seen us, it's not going to stop chasing us until it thinks it's driven us out of its territory!”

“What _is_ it's territory?” Stan called back, still trying to keep one eye on the creature.

“Um....” Dipper squinted at the journal in his hands. He winced. “M-most of Oregon?”

“What?!” Stan cried. 

Mabel stumbled on a rock and Stan caught her arm, pulling her back onto her feet. The ground shook behind him. They were keeping pace ahead of the creature but not even coming close to losing it. Stan set his jaw.

“Keep running.” he said. “I'm gonna try and lure this thing away.”

“But, Grunkle Stan--” Dipper protested.

“Take your 'buts' and get 'em back to the shack! Now!” Stan raised his voice and growled, his tone sharp. It had the desired effect, Dipper took Mabel's hand and the two of them ran on ahead. Stan reached down and grabbed a fallen tree branch from the ground. He turned and ran back towards the creature, swinging at it. He landed a blow on the left side of it's head as he ran past, shouting.

“Come and get me! Bigger chumps than you have tried to kick me outta this state!”

The creature turned and loped after Stan. If he could get back to his car, he'd have a chance. He just needed to keep running.

###### ...

“Grunkle Ford!”

“Great Uncle Ford! We need your help!”

Ford heard the twins shouting before the elevator even hit the bottom floor. He set down his pen and turned towards them.

“Mabel? Dipper?” He bent down. “What's happened?”

“We were in the woods and some big monstery thing started chasing us!” Mabel cried. 

“I think it was a bee-hemoth!” Dipper said, holding Ford's journal open to the relevant page. “We got away, but Stan ran off to distract it...it's probably still after him!”

“All right, all right, calm down.” Ford held out a hand authoritatively. “If it's a beehemoth, I have something that can take it down quickly....where did you last see Stan?“

“I don't know, um...maybe...half a mile east of here?” Dipper shifted anxiously. “We can probably show you.”

“I don't think that's wise. You two had better stay here.” Ford reached into a drawer and pulled out a long, black case. Inside was a tracking device and a small, specialized gun. “I'll go rescue Stan.”

“Be careful...” Dipper said. He and Mabel followed after Ford as he took the elevator to the first floor. “It was fast...and it looked like it was angry.”

“I'm sure it did.” Ford said, smiling indulgently. “Keep in mind, Dipper, I've dealt with things twice as fast as a beehemoth, ten times and dangerous and a dozen times as angry. I can handle this.”

Ford left the twins on the front porch and headed towards the woods. He attached the tracking device to his wrist and activated it. It was something of his own invention, a machine that could pick up the unique aural signature of certain supernatural creatures. He set it to find the trail of a beehemoth, and after just a few moments of searching, picked up the one that must have gone after Stan.

He didn't need the tracking device for long. The creature had left deep, narrow prints in the soft earth. Ford soon began to notice another pair of tracks. Human footprints, left by a pair of wingtip shoes. They were hard to see, half-obliterated by the much larger prints of the monster, but he had to assume they were Stan's. 

Both sets of tracks continued for a while, then began to come closer together, as if both parties were slowing down. They swerved and turned around each other. Ford frowned at the sight. A few yards deeper, and he saw the trail dotted with the thick, yellow blood of the beehemoth A few yards farther down, and the blood he saw looked human.

Ford's fingers twitched on the grip of his gun, and he sped up as much as he could without losing the trail. The brush around the trail was trampled and broken. There had definitely been a struggle. One of the younger trees had been nearly snapped in half by some kind of impact, and dark red stain was dripping down the broken trunk. Ford gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the implications of that. 

The monster's tracks suddenly turned, continuing north. Ford nearly followed them, until he realized that Stan's tracks were going off in the opposite direction.

They were easy to follow....Stan's steps were uneven, his trail periodically broken by deep, long imprints, as if he'd stopped and fallen to his knees. The leaves by his trail were spotted with blood, and Ford quietly hoped he hadn't tried to walk very far with whatever injury he had. After a few minutes of following, Ford saw his brother's shape propped against a tree, sitting on the ground. 

“Stanley....!” He breathed a sigh of relief and ran to him. “I'm here...let me see where you're hurt.”

Stan turned and looked up at him. His movements were sluggish. “'Bout time you showed up.” he muttered. “I was starting to get bored.”

“Shh. Let me see.” Ford commanded. He moved Stan's hands from his wound. It was deep...it was bad, but it wasn't unfixable. He pulled a roll of bandages out of the case he was carrying and started applying pressure.

“You shouldn't have tried to fight it...” Ford muttered, “what were you thinking, taking on a creature that size?”

“ 'I'm so glad you're alive, Stan.'” Stan said in a sarcastic parody of his brother's voice. “Thanks for protecting the kids. Sorry that one of my dumb mysteries almost got everybody killed again.' Yeesh. I've gotten warmer greetings from cops.”

Ford was quiet for a moment, working. Finally he said. “It was brave of you to distract it. ...But you're wounded very badly right now. We need to get you to a hospital. Where's your car?”

“Nnnh....dunno. Maybe a mile from here...” Stan winced, “I can make it. I've had worse....just need to start walking.”

Ford helped him stand, using himself as a crutch. Stan took a couple of steps, then his expression changed. He clutched his bandaged abdomen and crumpled, doubling over. Ford did his best to lower him gently back to the ground. 

“Or not.” Stan said, his voice tight with pain. “Maybe not. I think...I think I just need to lie down for a minute. Maybe two minutes.” He winced. “Maybe forever.”

“Don't make jokes, Stan, please.” Ford bent over his brother. The bandages were already soaking through with blood. Ford would need to staunch the bleeding somehow before Stan could be moved. Even if Ford was going to carry him---which he would, in a heartbeat---Stan couldn't get far with his wound leaking like that. Ford focused his attention on Stan's middle, moving and re-wrapping the bandages, packing the wound as tightly as he dared.

His work was interrupted by Stan's hand brushing gently against his own. He looked up. Stan was smiling softly at him. 

“This isn't exactly how I'd have wanted to go.” he said. “But I got you back before I died. That's something, isn't it? I mean...I did something worthwhile, huh?”

“You're not going to die tonight, Stan.” Ford said with determination. “Just hold on. I can fix this.”

“Sure...fine. Whatever you say....” Stan's head started to nod forwards. Ford felt panic rising in him. He dropped the wrap he was holding and gripped Stan by the shoulders.”

“Stay with me, Stan,” Ford said. “Try to stay awake, please....!”

“Heh...you beggin' me to stick around. That's new.” Stan smiled. “Doubt you'd be saying it if I wasn't dying, though.”

“I'll say it every day from now on, just hold on.” Ford's mind raced. There had to be something. Something he could do.

“...T-tempting....” Stan said. “Maybe I will stay....”

A moment later, his head lolled to the side. His limbs went slack. Ford frantically felt for breath, and came back with nothing.


	2. Doesn't Weigh Me Down At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which being a ghost kind of sucks, and having to take care of your dead twin's body isn't very much fun either.

Stan's vision blurred and dimmed. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Ford kneeling on the ground a few feet below him, bent over somebody. In a surreal moment, Stan realized the that body Ford was frantically examining was his own.

_Huh..._

The pain in Stan's abdomen, which had been agonizing just a short while ago now only felt like a dull ache. The memory of pain, more than pain itself.

_Is this one of those out-of-body experiences?_

Then Stan got a look at his own face. He looked at his eyes, and a chill went through him.

_...Nope._ Stan whispered. _...Not one of those._

Ford was staring down at him, frantically compressing his chest and whispering. “No...no...not now. Not after all this...”

Stan moved down a little closer to the scene. He was startled to see tears coming out of his brother's eyes. Were those for him?

“Please....” Ford gave up on his compressions and slumped over the body. “Please don't go... I'm sorry....I'm so sorry...I didn't mean it.” He shook, and his breath caught. “I don't want you gone...I don't want to lose you again....Come back...come back, please....”

Stan reached out to put a hand on Ford's shoulder. Show him that he wasn't really gone...but his hand passed right through him.

_I'm here!_ Stan shouted _Sixer, I'm still here...I'm not going anywhere!_

Ford didn't turn, and he didn't react. He stayed with his arms wrapped around the body on the ground., oblivious to his brother's voice. Stan made a frustrated little noise. He couldn't even tell Ford that he heard him. He couldn't do anything besides...besides just _float_ above him and watch.

Stan would have thought this would give him some satisfaction, seeing himself be mourned. Seeing his brother weep over him. But now that it was actually happening all he wanted to do was throw his arms around Ford and tell him not to cry. Tell him that he wasn't really....

Wasn't really.

The weight of what was happening began to sink in. He looked down at his hands, at himself and found he could barely see anything. He was...insubstantial. Like an afterimage. Like a mist, or a....ugh, Stan couldn't bring himself to say the word that was coming to his mind. Like something from one of those static-y handi-cam shows Dipper was always--

Oh, shit. Shit. Dipper...Mabel.

He knew he didn't have a heartbeat. Didn't have blood running through him anymore, but he could feel his heart race all the same, felt the blood run from his face. The body on the ground was slack and twisted. Its face was devoid of light or expression, and its middle was a mass of gore...the Our Hero sash that Mabel had knitted for him had been neatly clipped in two by the monster's claws, and the tattered halves were soaked in blood. He looked like something out of a nightmare.

_Ford....please,_ he whispered. _Don't let the kids see. Don't let them see me like this._

Whether or not any part of Ford heard Stan, he seemed to have the same idea. Slowly straightening, Ford took off his trench coat and lay it over Stan's body. For a moment, he stood looking down at Stan. Then he turned and began walking back to the Shack.

_Good...good. Don't take me back there...not while the kids are home._ Stan muttered.

As Ford moved away from the body, Stan felt a gentle pull. It was weak at first, then it grew stronger as Ford moved father away until he Stan couldn't resist it. Some spiritual tether kept him following after his brother.

_Hmph. Guess that's one thing death didn't change._ Stan said, glancing back at the body as they left it behind. He distantly hoped that nothing came along and ate it.

Ford made his way through the woods and back to the Shack where the twins were waiting for him. Stan saw identical looks of worry on their faces. When Ford stepped into the light, Dipper's eyes widened. Stan winced....he could see now how much of his blood Ford was wearing.

_Guess it's a good thing you're dressed in red._ Stan muttered, hoping the kids wouldn't be sure what those stains were.

“....What happened?” Dipper asked softly.

“Are you okay? Where's Stan?” Mabel asked.

“He's....he's still in the forest. There was an incident.” Ford's tone was cold and clipped. There was strain in it. He pushed past the kids, heading for the kitchen.

“What do you mean, what kind of incident?” Dipper asked.

Ford picked up the phone off its cradle and looked at the list of numbers on the refrigerator. He paused, uncertain. “...What's the name of that big fellow who's always hanging around here?” Ford asked. 

“You mean Soos?” Mabel supplied.

“Soos.” Ford's finger ran down the list of numbers until he found Soos's name. He started dialing it. “The two of you will be staying with him for a little while. Go upstairs and pack some overnight bags.”

“What?” Dipper frowned. “Why? What's happening?”

“Just do as I say.” Ford snapped, then caught himself, lowering his voice and carefully softening his tone. He turned towards Dipper and Mabel. “Please. Just trust me.”

The kids looked at each other uncertainly, but Dipper eventually nodded and the two of them headed upstairs.

Stan watched while Ford called up Soos, asking him to come pick up the kids. He didn't say why, which was something of a relief to Stan. He wasn't sure he wanted to overhear Soos's reaction to this right now.

Almost before Stan knew it (had he just gotten distracted, or did time pass differently for him now?) the kids were climbing into Soos's car. Ford watched them leave from the porch, heading back into the woods only after they'd vanished into the distance.

Stan tried to follow Ford, but found that he couldn't. Whatever mysterious tether had bound him to Ford earlier seemed to have changed hands and now it was anchoring him to the Shack. He couldn't go more than a foot or two onto the porch before he felt something pulling him backwards, snapping him back into the house he'd spent the past thirty years in.

This was just great. Typical. Once again life had managed to add a little insult to his injury. He was really and truly dead. But worse than that, now he was just one more freaky supernatural thing about this town. He was haunting his own damn house. He didn't get harps and angels or fire and brimstone, he didn't get the quiet nothingness he'd been expecting after death, no. He got this. He'd get to hang around Gravity Falls for eternity, being ignored by a brother that couldn't even see him anymore.

No more second chances. No last-minute escapes to pull off. No way to wriggle out of this one. This was it. His family couldn't see him. He couldn't talk to anyone, and he couldn't leave.

He swished an arm out, trying to knock a chair over in frustration. His arm passed through it. That only angered him more, and he kicked out his limbs, thrashing around at the air around him. He cursed. He yelled. He threw a tantrum that would have made his five-year-old self proud in his empty house, unseen and unheard even by the cockroaches.

A coffee cup flew off the kitchen table a few feet away and shattered on the ground.

Stan stared at it. It hadn't fallen by itself—it had moved a full foot and a half from the center of the table on its own. Had he done that? He reached to pick up one of the shards, but his hand passed through it...just as it had done with everything else.

He sighed. ...He'd liked that mug

He heard the door open and floated back to the front hall. Ford was back. And he was carrying Stan's body over his shoulder.

Stan floated behind him, morbidly fascinated at the sight of his own corpse. Sheesh. He'd gotten fat over the years. Seeing the back of his own head wasn't much of a treat either. Was his hair thinning? The worst of it, though, was his midsection. Stan felt a phantom ache when he looked at it too long. He remembered the feeling of that stinger going through him. He decided to avert his eyes.

Ford looked around a moment before setting the body down on the floor of the TV room. He collapsed in Stan's easy chair, clearly exhausted from carrying him so far. He sat for a while and caught his breath.

_So..._ Stan said, fully aware that Ford couldn't hear him. _What do we do now?_

As if in response, Ford stood and walked back into the gift shop, opening the vending machine and heading down into the basement. Stan followed him there.

_You got some kind of a plan brewing, Sixer?_ Stan grinned. _Gonna go all Dr. Frankenstien on me and bring me back to life with your nerd stuff?_

There was, naturally, no response.

_If anyone can do it, you can._ Stan said as Ford approached his desk. He opened a drawer and rummaged quietly around in it.

_Whatcha looking for, anyway?_ Stan asked. _Some kind of science machine that'll--...oh._

Ford had found what he'd been looking for. He pulled out a plain glass bottle, half-filled with scotch. He turned and took it upstairs.

_Ah. Right..._ Stan followed him back up. _...Guess I can't really blame ya._

Ford sat down again in the TV room. He spent a while taking long, slow sips from the bottle and staring at Stan's corpse before finally picking up the phone again and dialing.

“Hello...” he said into the receiver. “...I need to report a...” his voice caught. “...An accident.”


	3. So Put A Candle In The Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is some mild cruelty to stuffed animals.

Five days. It had been five days since Stan died. To Ford, it all seemed like a blur.

Ford had told the police that he was Stan's brother and that he'd been away for a long while. It seemed easier than trying to explain everything. He had no identification but his face had served as proof enough of his relationship to Stan, at least as far as the law in Gravity Falls was concerned. That was something that hadn't changed about the town since Ford was last there—laws were enforced casually, gently, and usually without paperwork.

He wished telling the kids had been as easy as telling the police. When he came to pick them up, Ford had made the mistake of taking Soos aside and telling him the news first, quietly and very bluntly. Soos didn't take it well at all. He made a scene which the kids overheard, and _that_ had ended up being how they found out about their uncle's death. Between their reactions and Soos's panic, well...it had taken Ford a long time to calm everyone down. He hadn't known how important Stan had been to the young man.

He didn't really know _anything_ about Stan's life in Gravity Falls. That was something Ford was coming to realize.

Ford sat in the console room in the basement, looking at the wrecked remains of the portal. Five days since Stan died. Nineteen days since he'd stepped through that doorway and punched his brother in the face.

There was a bottle next to Ford that he was pretending to ignore. He turned his attention instead to the small, clear globe on the table in front of him. At least one good thing had come of Stan's death. It had helped Ford make a difficult decision about the rift. He knew now what he was going to do. He would just have to wait until the kids were gone.

Ford reached for the bottle and poured.

###### ...

Five days. Stan couldn't believe he'd been dead for five days. It already seemed like an eternity—and the joke was on him, because eternity was apparently what he was in for.

He felt a little cheated that he hadn't been able to attend his own funeral, but deep down he was sort of glad. He didn't know how many of the people he'd come to know in Gravity Falls cared about him enough to show up, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Even the thought of a long line of folks eager to dance on his newly-dug grave wasn't as depressing as the thought of Ford and the twins being the only ones to attend.

Of course, Stan knew they wouldn't be the _only_ ones. Wendy might show up, if only to comfort the twins. Soos...Soos would have been there. He'd have probably cried and everything. Stan felt something twist in the space where his gut used to be. He hadn't seen Soos since the night he died. He wondered how he was doing.

Stan shook his head. He had to stop dwelling on it. Thoughts like this were going to drive him bats if he let them. But he couldn't leave it alone. He didn't sleep now, he didn't eat. He couldn't lose himself in work or running the Shack, and he couldn't talk to anyone. Couldn't even watch TV unless someone else had it on. There was nothing to distract him from the things he usually preferred to keep deep in the back of his mind. The days since his death had been the longest ones that he could remember.

The worst were the hours when everybody was asleep. At least when Ford and the kids were awake he could watch them. It was something, even if it bruised his heart to see them going about their day without even knowing he was there. But at night...when the Shack was dark and silent...he felt utterly alone. He could feel the screws coming loose in his mind. He'd started getting anxious when the sun went down and the long, silent night drew closer. Scared of the dark, like a little boy.

At the moment he was floating restlessly in the attic room, watching the twins. Dipper was lying on his stomach, fiddling with some kind of puzzle. Mabel was flipping through her summer scrapbook, moving photos around and adding new drawings. Stan peeked over her shoulder and realized she was putting together a couple of pages of him---photos from the summer, drawings, a couple of Stan-Bucks from the gift shop. Despite himself, Stan couldn't help smiling at it.

“Dipper?” Mabel asked, “do you still have that piece of bubblegum we found in Stan's shoulder hair that one time?”

Dipper looked up. “What? No...why would I ever keep that?”

“I dunno.” Mabel shrugged. “But I need it for my scrapbook memorial.”

“Sorry.” Dipper said. “Maybe you can find something gross of his in his bedroom?”

“No...that's okay.” Mabel sighed and went back to fiddling with her pictures. Dipper put his puzzle down and looked at her, sadly.

For the hundredth time, Stan reached out and tried to knock something off the table beside Mabel's bed. Anything that could give them the hint he was there. Nothing happened. Maybe he just needed to try it with something smaller. His eye went to the latch on the window.

“I can't believe he's really gone.” Mabel sighed. She turned to lay upside down on the bed, her long hair trailing on the floor.

“Me neither.” Dipper rested his head on his hands. “Stan was always telling us that the supernatural was dangerous. I guess I didn't take that as seriously as I should have.” Dipper sighed. He was quiet for a while. “Do you think...” he trailed off.

“What?” Mabel asked

“I just...do you think if I'd listened to him about that stuff more...he'd still be alive?”

“Dipper....” Mabel rolled off the bed and walked over to him. “...It isn't your fault. It was that stupid monster's fault.”

_Listen to your sister, kiddo._ Stan said, concentrating as hard as he could on moving the latch. He focused on his fingertips, willing them to push the tiny metal hook that was holding the window shut. _Though, if this convinces you to leave the monster-hunting stuff alone for the rest of the summer, that's at least some good come out of it._

“I guess....” Dipper said. He didn't sound convinced. “But, what if--”

Click.

The twins turned as the breeze from outside blew the window wide open, the slats clattering against the wall. They stared for a moment, then Dipper frowned.

“Argh,” he said, walking right through Stan as he went to close the window, his sadness turning quickly into irritation. “Why is everything in this place always broken or falling apart?”

_Falling apart? Hey, you try to maintain a house this size for thirty years on a cheapskate's budget._ Stan grumbled. His hard work had been written off as a busted latch, and his family still had no idea he was around.

Stan gritted his teeth. The frustration of the past few days was getting to him. It was a familiar feeling...anger building in him, usually a sign that he was about to do something rash. If he could, he'd have thrown something, kicked something, broken something. If he could, he'd have stomped or paced around, but he couldn't. He couldn't do a damn thing to let off any of the head of steam he was building in him. He screamed, because it was the only thing he _could_ do.

And as that scream came out, something else did as well. The pile of stuffed animals on Mabel's bed suddenly flew apart, plush elephants and bears and chinchillas flying in every direction. The twins cried out and grabbed each other as the soft toys zipped around the room, whirling in every direction before finally falling to the ground.

Stan stared....he felt suddenly and completely exhausted. Like he'd just ran a marathon. The kids were staring too, open-mouthed, at the stuffed animals scattered everywhere.

“W-What was that?” Mabel asked. “What just happened?”

“I don't know.” Dipper carefully approached one of the animals on the ground and poked it with the end of a pen. “It looked like...some kind of poltergeist activity.”

“Poltergeist? You mean...” Mabel trailed off. The kids both looked at each other. “You don't think....?”

Dipper looked around the room at the scattered stuffed toys. “...We should go tell Ford about this. Right now....”

Stan followed the kids down to the kitchen as they cornered Ford while he was trying to pour himself some cereal. Stan frowned at the sight of his brother. In the bright light of the kitchen, he looked a lot more ragged than he ever did down in the basement. Still, the kids' excitement was giving him a deer in the headlights look that Stan couldn't help but smirk at.

“...And then they started whirling around the room, it was like a stuffed animal tornado!” Mabel exclaimed.

“It's just how you described Category One ghosts in your journals!” Dipper said. “All in one sudden burst that quickly died down.”

“Yes...” Ford muttered quietly. “That does sound typical of Category One hauntings.”

“Do you think it might be Stan?” Dipper asked. “I mean...he's the only person we know who died recently...”

“Maybe he's stayed here to look out for us.” Mabel smiled hopefully.

Ford shook his head. “I'm afraid that's impossible, kids. Spirits never manifest so soon after somebody dies. Besides...Stan wasn't the type to leave a ghost.”

_What?! Impossible my ass, I'm right here! And what does that mean, 'not the type'?_ Stan huffed. He swiped a hand forward, hoping he could knock the glasses off of Ford's know-it-all face. No good. His hand passed through him.

“If there really is some kind of poltergeist activity in the attic, it's likely the specter of somebody who died here centuries ago...and isn't likely to be benevolent.” Ford continued.

Mabel frowned. Dipper looked up at Ford. “Are you sure? I mean...we'd just been talking about Stan when it happened, and...”

“Likely a coincidence.” Ford interrupted. “Believe me, Dipper. I've had a lot of experience with this sort of thing. I know what I'm talking about.”

_Like hell you do!_ Stan shouted. _Those kids know more than you do! At least they recognize me when they see me! Or...or don't see me, whatever._

“Well...” Dipper said uncertainly. “If you think it might be malicious...should we try to exorcise it?”

“No, no, no.” Ford waved a hand dismissively, quickly. “There's no need for anything that drastic. The best thing to do is just ignore it as best you can. Ghosts feed off the attention and emotion given to them by the living. Deprive them of that, and they'll grow weaker. Eventually, it will fade away.”

_Fade away?_ Stan couldn't believe what he was hearing. After all this, was his brother actually trying to get rid of him again? Even if it was only because Ford thought he was some kind of malevolent spook, it still stung.

“Now...I have a lot of work to do, so I'll be in the basement most of the evening.” Ford reached into his pocket and set some money on the table. “Order yourselves something for dinner tonight. Don't stay up too late, and so on.” He breezed past the twins and into the gift shop. A moment later, the sound of the vending machine closing echoed through the house.

Dipper and Mabel stared after Ford, frowning. Stan couldn't watch anymore. He floated back up to the attic and remained there until the twins went to bed.


	4. Don't Look At Me That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hasbro once again holds the key to the netherworld between life and death, and Waddles lies in a sunbeam.

It was a hot afternoon, and Waddles was stretched out on the attic bedroom floor. He rubbed his back against the scratchy throw rug, oinking contentedly. Pausing periodically to sniff at the remains of a half-eaten candy bar or a discarded sock. Without a care in the world

Stan wondered if pigs could leave ghosts. If someday he'd be floating around the shack and he'd bump into the restless spirits of every bacon sandwich he'd ever eaten. A dozen ghostly Waddleses to clean up after for eternity.

 _You're losing your mind, Stan. You need to get out more._ He said to himself, knowing, of course, that that wasn't an option. No matter how much he tried, he still couldn't leave the Shack.

As Stan spoke, Waddles lifted his head and picked up an ear. He was looking right at him. If Stan didn't know better....

_No, not a chance. You can't actually see me, can you?_

Stan looked at Waddles. Waddles stared back. Stan moved to the left, then to the right. Waddles's gaze followed him. _No kidding. Someone in this house is actually listening to me, and it's the pig. Amazing. There is a hell after all._

Waddles was soon distracted by the sound of eager feet running up the stairs. He stood and walked to the door to greet Mabel as she entered.

“Dipper!” Mabel called. “I'm back from the creepy old shop on main street! And I brought a game for us...”

Dipper looked up from the book he'd been reading.“It's not another of those talking phone dating games you keep bringing home from thrift stores, is it?”

“Almost as good.” Mabel reached into a shopping bag and pulled out a wooden board with words and letters arranged on it. “Bwamp! Ouija board!”

From the corner, Stan raised an eyebrow.

“Are you sure we should be using something like that?” Dipper said. “Ford said that we should try to ignore the ghost. And he does know a lot about this stuff.”

“Well he doesn't know _everything._ ” Mabel huffed. “Maybe he's right and it's not Stan. But if it isn't...this way we can find out who it is and what it wants. Maybe it needs our help.”

Dipper considered for a moment. “Well, okay. But if things start getting weird and the walls bleed or something, we stop.”

“Deal!” Mabel eagerly kicked some dirty clothes out of the way and started setting the Ouija up on the floor. Dipper drew the shades and set up candles. A few minutes later, they were seated around the board, hands moving the planchette slowly back and forth.

“We should ask it questions.” Dipper said. “Um...is there anybody there? Can you hear us?”

 _Here goes nothing._ Stan thought. He reached down and put his hand on the planchette, edging it towards _YES._ He was surprised at how easy it was to move. Barely any harder than it would have been if he were still alive. The kids' eyes widened.

“It's working!” Mabel whispered.

“All right, uh, spirit....what do you want from us?” Dipper asked.

Stan wasn't really sure how to answer that question, to be honest. He decided it was better to cut right to the chase. He moved from one letter to another.

“I...M...S...T...I...L...L...H...E...R...E.” Mabel read out the letters as they came. I...T...S...S...T...A...-- _Dipper!_ ” Mabel gasped. “It's Stan! It really is him!”

“Stan?!” Dipper's eyes widened. “But...how? Ford said ghosts didn't manifest this soon after they died...”

“Are you okay? What's it like where you are?” Mabel asked. “Is there a general 'clouds and harps' theme?”

Stan moved the planchette.

“I...M...H...E...R...E.” Mabel spelled. “I...N...T...H...E...S...H..A...C..K. I...N...E...V...E...R...L..E..F...T.”

Stan paused a moment, considering. Then moved the planchette again.

“I...M...I...S...S...Y...O...U.” Mabel spelled. “We miss you too! Everything's weird with you gone. There's no one to watch TV with us and point out which actors are ugly. The museum's closed down and Grunkle Ford never comes out of the basement anymore. We need you back.”

“We have to show this to Ford.” Dipper picked the board up off the ground. “Stan, if you can hear us, come downstairs with us, okay?”

Stan followed the twins down into the kitchen where Ford was sitting, reading over some papers and sipping coffee. He couldn't help but notice that Ford looked just a little bit hungover.

“Great Uncle Ford!” Dipper ran in, grinning wide. “I know you said we that should ignore the ghost. But we just learned something incredible. It is Stan!” He held up the Ouija board. “We were talking to him with this!”

“He says he's still here,” Mabel said “and that he never left, and he misses us.”

Ford didn't seem excited. He looked at the kids for a moment then slowly stood up, sighing. “Dipper....I'm sure that whatever spirit you contacted through that thing _said_ he was Stan. But Stan isn't here. He's gone. And that thing, whatever it is, can't be Stan.”

Dipper's smile slipped, replaced by a look of confusion. “But....how can you be so sure?”

“Because I have experience with this sort of thing. Look. He said that he misses us. Any creature trying to convince us that he's Stan would say that. It's playing on our hopes, trying to make us vulnerable. It's textbook manipulation.”

“Well...then let's try talking to him again!” Dipper placed the board down on the kitchen table. “We can ask him things that only Stan would know. Between the three of us, I'm sure we can figure out whether--”

“No, Dipper.” Ford picked the board up off the table and tucked it under his arm. “Boards like these may just be a game to most people, but when they're combined with an actual malevolent spirit they become dangerous. Using it will only lend the spirit power. It could manipulate, harm or even possesses either of you, and I won't allow that to happen.” He pulled a heavy looking case out from beside the table and locked the Oujia in it.

 _You've gotta be kidding me..._ Stan muttered. _That thing actually let me talk to the kids for a minute there, and you're locking it away? Anything else you wanna take away from me while you're here?_

“But...Great Uncle Ford---” Dipper began. Ford reached down and put a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off.

“Listen. We all miss Stan. But believe me when I say that contacting this creature in an attempt to _reach_ Stan....it will only lead to trouble. Trust me, Dipper.”

“I...I trust you,” Dipper said, “but--”

“Good. Then everything's settled.” Ford stood, picking up the case that held the Ouija in it and carrying out.

 _This is bull!_ Stan cried as Ford walked out. _“Creature”...What's the matter with you? Can't you recognize your own brother when he'd floating right next to you?!_

Stan heard the vending machine open and close. Ford had retreated into the basement again.

###### ...

Mabel watched Grunkle Ford leave, a little bit disappointed and a little bit baffled. There was a sudden, loud pop behind her that made her jump and turn. The kitchen light bulb, the same one Ford had invented a week ago had exploded.

Had Stan done that? Mabel winced at broken bulb, looking down. “I guess I'd be mad too...” she said.

Dipper sighed in frustration. “I don't get it...he's so convinced that it's not Stan. He's not even willing to _try_ contacting him. Why is he being so stubborn?”

“Maybe he just feels too sad. You know...doesn't want to think about him at all right now, after what happened.” Mabel suggested.

“I guess. He _has_ been acting really weird ever since Stan died.” Dipper said “...He's even changed the access code in the vending machine so that I can't get in unless he lets me. And he smells like dad does after his football team wins.”

“Don't worry, bro.” Mabel said, her tone reflexively turning cheerful in response to Dipper's worry. “We just have to find a way to _prove_ it's Stan. Once he realizes his brother's still here with him, he'll stop being all weirdly creepy and reclusive, and go back to being normal creepy and reclusive.”

“But how? He can't even talk without the Ouija.” Dipper sighed. “I don't get it...that Category Ten ghost back at the Northwest Manor could talk, manifest, turn people into wood...why can't Stan do anything like that?”

“Maybe it's cause he just died?” Mabel shrugged. “Ford did say the more attention you pay to a ghost, the stronger they get. Maybe that's what he needs.”

Dipper rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I wonder if there's a way to speed things up...you'd think with all the weird stuff in this town there'd be a spell or an artifact or _something_ somewhere that can make ghosts more powerful. I'll bet Ford found something when he was studying the town...”

“Well, maybe.” Mabel replied. “But I think we can forget about getting any help from Ford on this.”

“Don't be too sure.” Dipper grinned slyly, pulling one of the journals out of his vest. “I think Great Uncle Ford is going to help us whether he knows it or not.”

###### ...

Stan stared at Ford, wishing he could make his brother feel his gaze on the back of his head.

 _It's me, you jerk._ he muttered. _I'm here._ Stan reached out and waved his hand over some papers on a table, pleased to see a few of them flutter and fall to the ground. Ford glanced back at the noise, then turned around again.

 _Hey. World's smartest idiot._ Stan picked up a little crumpled piece of paper from the wastebasket. It took effort, but he managed to throw it at the back of Ford's head. _Stop ignoring me._

The paper ball hit its target and Stan smirked. Ford rubbed the back of his head, but didn't turn around.

 _You felt that, huh? How about this--_ Stan picked up another paper ball and chucked it as hard as he could at Stanford's back. It bounced off, making an audible noise. Ford flinched but didn't otherwise react.

It gave Stan childish pleasure, throwing bits and pieces of Ford's own waste paper at his head. If he was going to ignore Stan, Stan was going to make ignoring him a chore. The paper bits were small and light enough that throwing them wasn't exhausting. And every now and then, Stan saw Ford stiffen a little when one landed. 

_Still think I'm some kinda malevolent spirit, huh? Well, feel my ghostly wrath! Wooooo, wooooo, take that! Stan said. Have another one!_

A couple more bits of paper went flying. A few missed. A few hit. With each one Ford's posture got more and more tense. His grip on the table got tighter. Finally, he snapped and whirled around.

“Cut it out, Stanley!” he shouted.

Stan froze. The ball of paper he'd been holding fell through his hand, his concentration on it broken. Ford's voice echoed in the too-silent room.

Ford sighed and sat back down. He removed his glasses and ran a hand over his face, through his hair. “...I know it's you. I know you're here.” He paused for a while. “Listen...I'm....I'm only going to say this once. And then...I'm going to stop talking to you. For good.”

Stan felt a chill go through him. How could he...? If he'd known all along....

“...I'm sorry.” Ford said. “…For everything that happened between us. For my part in it. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry that I couldn't save you. I'm...I'm sorry that I told you that I didn't want you here, and that....”

He paused, trying to gather his words. This was obviously difficult for him to say. He was looking up towards the ceiling, where he must have imagined Stan to be. Stan floated up there so that Ford really was facing him, so he could see the expression on his brother’s face.

“Well...we had a second chance for a while there. A chance to make things right again, or at least better. And I know I wasn't very eager to take advantage of that chance. But now that it's too late, I wish that I had been. And I wish...” he swallowed. “I wish that I'd said thank you. Thank you for saving me. For treating me as if I was more important than our entire world. ...I'm not. I'm really not. But...thank you.”

Stan was dumbstruck. Even if Ford could have heard him, he wouldn't have known what to say...he felt a pressure building in him. Like the need to cry, but no tears came.

“Please Stan, believe that when I say this I'm not saying it because I want you gone. I want you _back_ more than anything. But that's just not possible. You're dead. And the longer you hold on here, the harder it's going to be for you....the worse things will get. Please, for your own sake...please let go. Let go, and be at peace.” Ford said softly. “I love you, Stanley.”

The words shot through Stan like a physical blow. _I love you._ They penetrated his heart and uncoiled a knot that had been inside him for a very, very long time. Stan felt warmth slowly spreading through him. Those words, said by Ford with such feeling and honesty in his eyes....they'd done something. Stan did feel at peace. He felt...released from something.

The room seemed to stretch and melt around him. Light ebbed into the corners of his vision. Distantly, he felt his consciousness becoming fuzzy. His grip on himself was fading. But he was all right with that. He wasn't afraid. He was content.

Ford turned back to the console. Back to whatever work he was doing. Stan watched, not feeling the need to be seen or heard by him. Content to watch as his outline grew more and more blurry...

“You need to let go.” Ford muttered quietly. “And so do I.”

Those words woke Stan a little from the peaceful haze he'd been settling into. Ford's tone was troubling. There was fear in it, and resignation. What did he mean by that, 'so do I'?

Stan floated a little closer, trying to get a look at what he was doing. He was writing something in a blank book—a new journal that he'd started since he'd been brought back. There wasn't much that Stan could make out. But the few words he did see snapped him out of the haze entirely, anchoring him back to reality.

_Everything is ready, and I have every confidence it will work. No regrets. But I will miss Dipper and Mabel._


	5. They'll End Up Getting My Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the twins go on an adventure when no one is looking, and traumatic events wind up being useful after all.

It was late afternoon when Dipper and Mabel returned to the Shack from their venture out into the forest. Both of them were scuffed, dirty and disappointed.

“Well, _that_ was a waste of time.” Dipper complained, flipping through the journal. “Who would have thought that amulet only worked on _pirate_ ghosts?”

“At least we got some souvenirs.” Mabel said, pulling two uncomfortably large scimitars out from behind her back. “And we learned an important lesson about honesty.”

“I just hope Stan isn't too disappointed when he realizes we came back empty handed.” Dipper kicked a rock into the base of the totem pole.

“Yeah...” Mabel lowered her swords. “...Guess we won't know if he is. Not without the Ouija board.”

“There's got to be something else we can do...” Dipper said.

“I just wish we could _talk_ to him.” Mabel sighed. “Can you imagine what it's like to be right there in front of somebody when they can't see or even hear you?”

Dipper stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. The memory of high-pitched, mocking laughter in his mind. Of course. Of _course...._ why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

“Actually...I don't think I _have_ to imagine.” He turned to Mabel, grinning. “Mabel, go get your markers and the stick-on googly eyes. I just had an amazing idea.”

###### ...

Stan floated quietly in the corner of the attic. Since the kids had gotten back from whatever adventure they'd been on, they'd been spread out on the floor working intently on...something. Well, really _Mabel_ was the one working on it, Dipper only watched and offered the occasional suggestion or word of encouragement. Both of them seemed awfully excited, though.

“Add a pair of grumpy eyebrows, and....done!” Mabel said, holding up her handiwork proudly. It looked like one of those puppets from that show she'd put on earlier in the summer, obviously a likeness of him. “Now...how do we try it out?”

“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper called, looking around the room. “If you can hear me, try to pick up the puppet and put it on your hand.”

Stan reached out and plucked the puppet out of Mabel's hands. Mabel gasped a little as it left her grip, then grinned. Lifting the puppet still took effort, it was shockingly heavy for something made out of a paper bag and not much else. But he found he was able to hold it steadily without losing his grip. Maybe his ...ghost muscles were getting stronger, or something.

“Great! Now...try talking _through_ the puppet.” Dipper said.

Stan figured it was for the best that Dipper couldn't see the look Stan was giving him right now. But it wasn't as if he had anything better to do than go along with whatever the kids hand in mind. He moved the puppet's mouth experimentally.

“Uh...hello?” Stan tried.

Both twins gasped. Mabel leaped up in the air, cheering.

“It worked!” Dipper cried, “Grunkle Stan, we can hear you!”

 _What, really?_ Stan said. _This is amazing! I can't believe you two figured this out, you...I....what?_ The excitement on the kids' faces had faded slowly into confusion. _Why are you looking at me like that?_

“Why isn't he talking?” Mabel whispered to Dipper.

 _I am talking!_ Stan said.

“Oh....” Dipper pointed to the puppet. “Stan, you've gotta open and close the mouth in sync with your words, or it won't work.”

“...Really?” Stan said, opening and closing the puppet's mouth again. “That's...stupid.”

“I know, right?” Dipper said.

“Kids! I can't even tell you what a relief it is to be able to talk to you again!” Stan said. “I've been going stir crazy, floatin' around here with everyone ignoring me. I started talking to myself just to fill the air, and I think I lost any ability to filter my words.” He continued, “I've just been saying whatever pops into my head at any given moment. Hey, check out that zit on Dipper's neck. It's like he's got a second head coming in there, am I right?”

“Right?” Mabel grinned. “I've been coming up with names for it. I think it looks like a 'Harold.'”

“Ah, yes. This.” Dipper rolled his eyes. “I”m starting to remember this. Did not miss this part.”

“Ahh, I should've guessed you'd figure out some way to talk to me, you little brainiac.” Stan reached out with his puppet hand to pet Dipper's head. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Dipper reacted to the gesture. With the puppet on, Stan's hand didn't go through him. He could even distantly feel the texture of his hat through the thin paper bag. “Thanks for giving me my voice back.”

Dipper's irritated look melted under the praise and he pushed Stan's hand away, smiling.

“Listen, kids.” Stan said. “We need to do something about Ford. I think he'd gone mad with grief or something. I'm not sure what he's working on down there, but he's about to do something reckless---”

Stan was cut off by a loud bang as the door to the attic flew open. The twins turned, and even the puppet on Stan's hand turned reflexively to face the door. Ford was standing there. He looked livid.

“What exactly is going on here?!” He reached forward and grabbed the puppet out of the air. Pulled by a living, physical grip the paper bag passed through Stan's hand as if it were nothing. “What is this?”

“It's _Stan,_ Great Uncle Ford!” Dipper said, the frustration obvious in his voice. “The ghost in the Shack is Stan! We've been talking to him using that as a...as a medium, I guess.”

Ford looked at the puppet in his hand and frowned deeply. Dipper pressed on.

“We're not being tricked, we both heard his voice!” Dipper said. “I know you don't want to think about Stan being gone right now, but you _have_ to listen to us!”

“...I know it's Stan, Dipper.” Ford said lowly.

“You—wait, what?” Dipper said.

“Of course it's Stan...a poltergeist manifesting in the house he'd been living in, so soon after his death?” Ford sighed. “Who else could it be?”

“...So that's why you didn't want to perform an exorcism.” Dipper frowned, “But...then why did you tell us it _couldn't_ be him?”

“Because I knew the two of you would pull something like this!” He waved the puppet at them. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible this is?”

“We just wanted to talk to him.” Mabel said.

“The more you talk to him, the more you _listen_ to him, the more attention he gets from you the more he's pulled back into this world. The more tightly he's bound to it, and the stronger his presence in it is!”

“But...that's a good thing, isn't it?” Mabel asked.

“You don't understand.” Ford gritted his teeth and rubbed his forehead. “You want to see him again now. You want to talk to him _now._ But when summer ends, you two are leaving and going back home to your parents. But Stan can't leave. By pulling him back into this world you're trapping him in this house. It will be a _prison._ The isolation will drive him insane. It will destroy everything that's left of him.”

The room went silent.

 _So that's why._ Stan said. At least there was a reason Ford had been trying to keep the kids from talking to him. _But isn't that my decision, not yours?_

Mabel took a few steps forward. “But...what about you? You'll still be here. Won't you be able to keep him company?”

Ford stiffened and his eyes grew wide. Rather than answering, he crumpled the puppet in his fist and stuffed it into his pocket.

“No more puppets.” He said. “No more Ouija boards, or crystal balls, or whatever else you two plan on turning to next. You've probably done enough damage already. If you really care about Stan, you'll let him go.”

“But--!” Dipper begin, but Ford held out a hand, cutting him off.

“I'm especially disappointed in you, Dipper.” he said. “I'm going downstairs. Dinner's in the oven. I'll be taking mine in the basement. I'm sure the two of you can put yourselves to bed.”

Ford turned and left, closing the door tightly behind him. The twins stared at his absence for a while.

###### ...

A1...B1..C3...B2...C2.

Nothing.

C2...B2...A2...C3...B3.

Nothing.

B1...B3...A3...C1...C2. B3...B2...B1...A1...C1. C3...B2...A3...B1...A1.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Every combination Dipper entered into the machine felt flat. The door refused to open. He sighed. It would take forever to guess it through random mashing. The crack in the Shack's foundation that he'd gotten in through before had been sealed up as well, there was no way downstairs that Dipper could reach.

“Why are you acting like this...” Dipper muttered. Not that he imagined Ford could hear him. He drew back his leg and kicked the vending machine. Pain shot into his foot and up his leg and he hopped back, wincing. A “Nyamalums” bar popped out onto the floor. Dipper looked at it a minute before picking it up and resentfully munching on it.

He found Mabel in the kitchen, busily making a sandwich. She'd pulled out every kind of cold cut and condiment that had been in the fridge and was arranging them into a horrible configuration.

“Well. I don't think he's coming out for a while.” Dipper poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat down. “I guess we're on our own.”

“Yeah.” Mabel shook a bottle of mustard and squirted it experimentally at the side of the fridge. “Good thing we always do great without adult supervision.”

“Nothing about this feels right.” Dipper fiddled with the edge of his glass. “Did you see the look on Ford's face when you mentioned what happens after the summer?”

"Yeah...that was strange."

"I get that he thinks that Stan's better off if we just let him pass on, but..."

“Well, _I_ think if Stan wants us to ignore him so he can move on, he'll tell us himself.” Mabel said, sticking olives onto toothpicks and adding them to the mass of lunch meat and condiments on her plate. “Until then, I'm going to keep trying to talk to him. Besides, if something weird is going on with Ford we need all the help we can get figuring it out, right? I can just make another puppet.”

“With what? I thought Ford confiscated all your craft supplies.”

“Grunkle Ford underestimates my power.” Mabel said smugly. She stuck a couple more pimentos onto the monstrosity on her plate, then lifted it up. A sleeve of cold cuts held together with toothpicks, with a crude approximation of a human face drawn on in mustard. Sliced olives for eyes. It was a crime against both food and nature.

“Behold!” she said “The ham puppet!”

“That. Is horrifying.” Dipper said.

Mabel's smile didn't falter. And a moment later, the puppet was lifted out of her hands by an invisible force. “Well, at least _someone_ appreciates it.”

“Eugh...” Stan's voice came from the ham puppet's flapping mouth. “This feels...wrong somehow.”

“Hey Dipper, check it out--” Mabel grinned and pointed at the puppet. “It's Grunkle _Ham._ Ha!”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Stan, what's going on? It sounded like you were about to tell us something before Ford came in before...what's he doing down there?”

“I don't know exactly. Not yet...but something's wrong. He keeps muttering this creepy, cryptic stuff to himself when he thinks no one's around. And he's always tinkering with this weird little gizmo. It looks like a snow globe fulla...I dunno, full of space.”

“The rift...” Dipper said. “This isn't good.”

Mabel tilted her head. “Rift? What are you talking about?”

“Ah....” Dipper looked a little sheepish. “Ford told me not to tell you two about it.”

“Well Ford's obviously full of bad ideas lately. So spill it!” Mabel said, poking her brother in the chest.

“Okay, okay.” Dipper said. “It's...it's like a tear in the fabric of space and time, I think? Whatever it is, it's really, really powerful and really dangerous. I think that's why he was so obsessed with keeping it a secret.”

“Well, whatever it is, I think _he_ thinks he's got a plan for how to get rid of it.” Stan said “I've been spying on him practically day and night, but I'm pretty sure he's onto me. Everything he writes is in code now. I've been trying to crack it, but it's hard without a pen and paper.”

“You can figure out his ciphers?” Dipper asked, surprised.

“I spent a lot of years with that journal, y'know. I went over everything trying to find a clue to where the other two were hidden. So yeah. I've gotten pretty good at figuring out codes.” Stan sighed. “But...he's still better at this stuff than me. Always has been.”

“Well....maybe I can help.” Dipper perked up, grabbing a pen from the cup on top of the fridge and holding it out. “Here...do you think you can write down what you've seen?”

“Maybe....” the puppet floated forward and gripped the pen in it's mouth. It wrote a few symbols down on the notepad before dropping the pen, along with an olive and a couple of toothpicks. “...That's all I can remember right now. Give me some time, I'll go back down and try to memorize some pages.”

The sound of the vending machine door opening made everyone freeze. The ham puppet fell into a greasy, mustardy pile on the floor. Dipper stuffed the notepad into his vest, just as Ford walked into the kitchen.

Mabel quickly picked a slice of ham off the floor and threw it at the opposite wall. “You performed admirably, Dipper. But my score in the vertical ham toss is undefeated!” She turned to Ford and smiled innocently. “Oh, hey Grunkle Ford! Wanna help Dipper and me train for the lunch meat Olympics?”

“Not right now.” Ford muttered. “...I have an errand to go run in the forest. You two stay here and....” he trailed off. “Well, stay here. Remember what I said about talking to Stan.”

“Stan who?” Mabel gave an exaggerated shrug. “I've never even heard of this... _Stan_ of whom you speak.”

Ford gave her a long, hard look, then turned and left.

Dipper frowned. “Man, he looks even rougher than before. ...What do you think, Stan?” He turned and looked at the pile of cold cuts lying on the ground. “...Stan?”

“I think he left.” Mabel bent down and poked the immobile meat pile with the discarded pen. “I'll make a new one. Maybe out of something less...greasy.


	6. All That You've Loved Is All You Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I bring back a character who has been waiting so patiently to re-enter the story.

Dipper was readying his backpack when he heard the car pull up outside. He went to open the door and was nearly knocked back as Soos burst in.

“I came as _soon_ as I got your text, dude.” Soos said. “Is it true?”

“It's true. But keep your voice down...We've kind of got to keep this a secret from Ford.” Dipper motioned for Soos to come inside. “Sorry we didn't tell you sooner, but it's been kind of weird over here.”

“This is so cool,” Soos looked around the room, glancing in every corner and peering at every shadow. “So is this like, Ghost Dad rules? Ghost _busters_ rules? Field of Dreams rules? Ghost Dad rules? It's Ghost Dad rules, isn't it? Do I need to turn all the lights off to see him?” He reached for a lamp.

“We can't see him. Not yet, anyway...Hopefully that's something this will help with.” Dipper held journal three open to a page covered in drawings of strange spiral-shaped crystals, as well as scribbled notes describing their supernatural properties.

“Is he...here now?” Soos glanced around. He called towards the ceiling. “Mr. Pines?”

An invisible force flipped the front of Soos's baseball cap upwards, letting out a fluff of hair. Soos started laughing, eyes quietly filling with tears.

“Ah...hahaha...hey,” he smiled, wiping his eyes. “Wow.”

“Here's the plan, Soos.” Dipper said, drawing his attention back to the journal. “These crystals are only found in one specific cave, somewhere deep in the forest. It's going to be hard to find. There's thick, overgrown brush, biting fairies and possibly jacklopenstiens, but I think between the two of us we can handle it.”

“Aww, you _know_ I'm on board!” Soos held an arm out for a high five, “Let's get us some magic crystal dealies!”

“We'll be back later, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper called, as he and Soos headed out the door, into the forest.

###### ...

10:22 am...10:23 am....10:23 am...still.

Stan stared at the clock. An hour had passed since Soos and Dipper had left, and time seemed to have slowed to a halt.

He decided to float upstairs. One thing he was planning to add to the long, long list of things he missed about being alive was gravity. Floating around everywhere was nice at first, and yeah, it was a lot less tiring than dragging his old husk of a body around. But when the novelty of flying wears off, the little annoyances start to creep in. Floating around the shack just didn't clear his head the way pacing through the rooms used to.

As he passed the attic door, he heard Mabel's voice from inside.

“Grunkle Stan? Are you there?” She called.

Stan floated through the door. Mabel was sitting on her bed, propped up against a pile of stuffed animals with a notebook in her lap.

“Okay...well...I'll just hope I'm not talking to myself.” she shrugged. “I wanna try something new. It's called automatic writing. I'm gonna clear my mind, and I want you to try and move the pen in my hand, to draw whatever you remember Grunkle Ford writing down. Dipper and I think it might be easier for you than trying to hold the pen yourself.”

Stan smiled a little. Nothing seemed to stop these two when they put their heads together. A real dynamic duo.

“Got it?” Mabel paused, as if listening for a response. Stan reached out and squeezed Mabel's stuffed hippo until it squeaked. “I'll take that as a yes!” Mabel smiled. She pulled a pair of headphones out from a drawer beside the bed and put them on. “Okay, I'm clearing my mind now.”

Mabel pressed a button on her mp3 player, and Stan distantly heard some muffled pop song playing on repeat. Mabel rested the tip of the pen over the notepad and her eyes glazed over. Stan hesitantly reached over and tried gripping the pen, letting his hand phase into hers. Surprisingly, he saw Mabel's fingers grip the pen more tightly, her movements matching his.

Stan spent a few minutes writing down everything he'd seen in the Ford's new journal. Every paragraph full of gibberish, every scribbled margin, every diagram and doodle he could remember. When he ran out of space on one page, Mabel's hand moved with his to flip to the next one. She was right. This was easier than holding the pen himself. With her help, he had enough stamina to cover ten pages with notes and drawings.

Eventually, he'd written all he remembered. Mabel still had the same glazed expression, as whatever song she was playing started it's 20th repetition. She'd have to snap out of it sooner or later, and Stan suspected this automatic writing thing would end then. He thought for a moment, trying to decide if there was anything else he should add.

###### ...

“Now everyone can see me burning...now everyone can _see me buuuuurning!”_

The last strains of music faded out of Mabel's ears as the playlist she'd made earlier reached it's end. She yawned and stretched, coming out of the trance the music had put her in.

She looked down at the notepad in her lap and her eyes widened. The top page was covered in notes and cryptograms. So was the next page, and the next! Dipper was going to freak out when he saw this. In all these notes, there'd have to be something that could tell them what Ford had been doing down in the basement. Mabel grinned, eagerly flipping from one page to the next.

She stopped when she got past ten pages. The last page Stan had written on didn't contain any codes or diagrams. It didn't have any words on it at all. There was only one thing on the whole page—a simple, crude drawing of a heart.

Mabel looked at it a long while, tracing over it with her fingers. Then she clutched the notepad tightly to her body.

“Grunkle Stan...” she whispered.

A deep chill suddenly came over her, and she shivered. She glanced at the window, but it wasn't a draft. It felt like it was coming from all around her....as if....

“Are you....” she said softly, “are you hugging me? You're so cold....”

She felt herself warming, felt the chill pulling away.

“No, it's okay.” she said. “I don't mind the cold. Really.” She smiled up at the air. “I'm wearing a sweater.”

After a moment, the chill in the air came back. It wasn't very comfortable, but it let her know that Stan was there with her. Mabel nestled into the pile of stuffed animals at her back, closed her eyes and imagined they were her Grunkle's big arms.

###### ...

“Mabel?” Dipper called. He took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for the attic. “Mabel, we got the crystals! Soos is burying them around the shack right now!”

Dipper pulled a few twigs out of his hair as he ran. Finding the crystals hadn't been as difficult as they'd thought. The real challenge had been getting them back—they were way, way heavier than they looked, even for Soos. They had to go slowly through the creepiest part of the forest, and Dipper had sworn he felt someone or something watching them, but none of that mattered now—now he could share the good news!

The sun was on the west side of the shack, and the light that came in through the small attic window was dim. The door to their bedroom was ajar, and it didn't look like any of the lamps were on. Had Mabel fallen asleep? Dipper stuck his head in, and his eyes widened.

At first he wasn't sure what he was seeing, whether or not it was a trick of the light. The figure sitting on Mabel's bed looked...strange. Different from Dipper's memory. His dark suit seemed to blend into the shadows, making him look insubstantial. His face was ashen and the front of his coat was torn. Dipper could see the top of a dark red stain that was mercifully blocked by Mabel's sleeping body.

Dipper gasped and Stan's head shot up. Only when Stan was looking him in the eyes was Dipper able to believe what he was seeing. It was no illusion. It was really Stan.

Then he vanished.

When Dipper found his voice again, he shouted “Mabel, wake up!”

Mabel slowly lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. “Hmm?”

“I just saw Stan!” Dipper said excitedly. “I mean, I really saw him! He was sitting on the bed next to you!”

“Really?” Mabel's eyes lit up. “How did he look?”

Dipper's smile faltered a little, remembering the wound he'd barely caught a glimpse of. “Uh...good, good.” He said looking aside. “Just like he used to.”

“Stan? Grunkle Stan, are you still here?” Mabel called.

The two of them waited for a sign of his presence, but nothing came.

“I guess he left?” Dipper said.

“He's probably tired.” Mabel smiled secretively, slipping a notebook out from under her pillow. “From all the _writing_ he's been doing! Ba-Bam!”

Mabel passed the notebook to Dipper. Dipper took it, flipping through page after page of cryptograms. “This is great! So this is what great uncle Ford's been working on...” Dipper looked over the shaky handwriting. He knew a few of the codes that Ford had used in his journals, but all of these were new. He'd have to start from scratch. “These look difficult. ….I'd better start in on them right away.”

“I'll go make us some brain food—popcorn with melted gummi koalas in it!” Mabel said, heading downstairs.

“No syrup on mine!” Dipper called down after her. He tore the pages of cryptograms out of the notebook and spread them out on his bed, giving them a cursory glance. Trying to find any patterns between them. He could see what looked like the same cipher repeated on three of the pages...he also noticed tiny, circular patterns in the corners of every page. Could those be clues to decoding them? He was pretty sure he'd seen something similar in a book he'd gotten out of the Gravity Falls library earlier that summer...Where was it?

Dipper spotted it on a shelf in the corner and sighed. Why did Mabel always put everything on the highest shelves? Dipper braced his foot against the skull of some strange animal that was propping up the bottom shelf and started to climb. The book was at the very top, nearly pressed against the ceiling. Dipper was just a few inches from reaching it when he put his foot down on a weak point. The wood cracked and Dipper lost his grip, felt himself falling backwards. He braced himself for the impact against the hard attic floor, but to his surprise he landed on something soft.

He sat up. The pillows from Mabel's bed were now lying on the floor in front of the bookshelves, right underneath him. He was sure they hadn't been there a moment ago. And as he noticed that, he heard a soft thunk behind him. A library book had mysteriously fallen from the top shelf to the floor.

Dipper looked at the ceiling. “I was actually reaching for the one next to it.”

There was a pause, then the book on code breaking fell to the floor beside him.

“You didn't go anywhere at all, did you?” Dipper asked the air around him. “Why didn't you do anything when I asked if you were here?”

No response. The room was silent.

“...Were you thinking about what Ford said earlier? About...being lonely?”

More silence. Dipper shrugged, picking up the book he needed. “All right, keep your secrets old man. I'll figure 'em out eventually.” He felt something tug on the front of his baseball cap, pulling it down over his face. Dipper smirked and pulled it back.

He sat back down on the bed and started flipping through the paperback. He tried to read, but found his mind was drifting back to that night at the Northwest Manor. That ghost he'd encountered there...that lumberjack. He was so angry, and so...single-minded. All he cared about was his revenge. All he could see were the Northwests and what they'd done to him.

Dipper wondered if he'd been like that when he was alive...or if it was something that changed with his death. Maybe he'd been a regular guy when he was living, but a hundred years of haunting the Northwests' manor, watching the family he hated walking around and doing all the things he couldn't do anymore had _made_ him like that.

Dipper paused and looked back up, into the empty air. Even in the mid-August heat, the room felt too, too cold. He went back to working on the codes.


	7. From Anger Back To Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan and Ford completely fail to learn from their past mistakes.

“Okay...it took hours,” Soos said, “I fell out of a couple of trees, and I think I dug up the entrance to an underground society of mole people. But that's the last of the crystals buried.”

Mabel watched from on top of the TV as Soos nailed a floorboard back into place. All sixteen of the crystals that he and Dipper had brought back from the woods were buried in a spiral pattern around the shack, coming to a center point right in front of Stan's old easy chair. Apparently whatever spooky magic stuff the crystals did, it would be stronger if it focused in on a place where Stan had spent a lot of time, and the chair seemed like a better option than the basement.

“All right, Soos!” Mabel cheered, jumping down. “Is that it? I mean, is it working now? Do we need to say a spell or something?”

“Dunno. Dipper didn't say anything about that.” Soos said

Mabel cupped her hands around her mouth and called out..”Grunkle Stan, are you here? Can you hear us?”

An empty cola can lifted itself off the floor and floated a few feet in the air.

“Try lifting something heavier!” Mabel said. “See how buff your ghost muscles have gotten!”

There was a moment of hesitation. Then the easy chair was hefted up, floating several feet above the ground and hanging there.

Soos gasped and grinned. Mabel shrieked. “Try something else! Something cool! Make me and Soos fly around the Shack!”

“Ooh!” Soos said, “Or turn the banister on the staircase into a giant snake!”

“Make all my stuffed animals come to life! No, make ectoplasm shoot out of the walls!”

“Make a giant marshmallow dude show up!”

“Wait, wait, I wanna see you!” Mabel grinned. “Dipper said you appeared to him earlier....try doing that again.”

There was a long, empty silence. Long enough for the grins on Soos and Mabel's faces to slowly turn into looks of confusion.

“Maybe death made him shy?” Soos suggested.

Before the words were even out of his mouth, Mabel gasped and pointed. Stan's fez, which had been resting on the corner of the easy chair, was slowly being surrounded by a blue-white glow. As they watched, it rose into the air, turning transparent. Light poured out of the bottom of the fez in a wave, forming itself into the shape of Stan's body.

For a moment--just the blink of an eye--Mabel thought she saw Stan with blood on his shirt, with his suit ripped open and his eyes sunken. But then the image flickered and it was Stan the way she remembered him. Well, except more...blue, and glow-y, and hovery. But close enough.

Mabel screamed and ran over to him. “Oh my gosh! Dipper was right, you look great!” She carefully reached out a hand. “Can I...can I touch you?”

“Uh...I don't know, honestly?” Stan reached back to grip her hand. She felt a moment of contact, then his hand slipped through hers. “Not for long, I guess.”

“Heh. Kinda feels like cold jello.” Soos stood behind Stan, sticking his arm through his torso until his hand came out through Stan's shirtfront. Stan grimaced and pushed Soos away.

“Would ya cut that out?” he said “It feels weird.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pines.” Soos laughed. “I'm just really excited.” Stan grunted.

“How do you feel?” Mabel asked. 

“I dunno...different? Kinda lightheaded, actually...like the time I tried to rewire the Shack's security system on my own and woke up outside a day later.”

“Oh, man. I've been there.” Soos said.

“Guys!?” Dipper's voice came from the hallway. “Guys, you have to hear this, I---”

Dipper appeared in the doorway, then stopped and stared when he saw Stan.

“...Whoa.” Dipper said

Stan smiled weakly at him and shrugged.

“What is it?” Mabel asked. Dipper shook his head and held up the pages in his hand.

“It's Ford's notes. I haven't decoded everything, but I was able to figure out this paragraph--” he held up the paper and began reading from it. “Using pieces from the dismantled portal, I've begun assembling a smaller, one-time use gateway that can take a passenger out of this dimension.”

“What!?” Stan cried. Dipper continued reading.

“Once penetrated it will close permanently, destroying itself without creating another rift. With this, I can take the rift out of our dimension into a place that is uninhabited and allow it to rupture safely.” Dipper looked up. “He's going to take the rift into another dimension and trap himself there with it!”

“Oh, that's what _he_ thinks!” Stan shouted.

The floor shook. Lights shot up from between the floorboards.

“Ignore that!” Ford's muffled voice came from below. “It's just ah, just the microwave!”

“We've got to stop him!” Mabel shouted.

Dipper looked panicked. “But I don't know how to get down there!”

“Leave that to me.” Stan flew down through the floorboards and was gone.

###### ...

Ford watched the glowing center of the dimensional gateway carefully. This time there would be no room for error. It would have to be perfectly self-sealing, with no opening for Bill to get back through.

The readings were all normal, or as close to normal as anything could be when dealing with trans-dimensional physics. Everything would be ready for him when the summer was over and the twins went home. _He_ was ready. 

That's what he was thinking when a sudden, invisible force pulled him back from the gateway and threw him backwards several feet. Ford felt the wind being knocked out of him as he fell to the ground. For a moment he thought some unexpected pulse had come out of the gateway, knocking him back. Then he heard Stan's voice from behind him.

“Have you lost your mind, Poindexter?” Stan cried out.

Ford turned and saw his brother for the first time in days. Stan was hovering several feet in the air, fully manifested. He wore the image of his former self, but his body was entirely suffused with spectral energy. His spirit must have absorbed something powerful to be this far along....

“Stanley....” Ford whispered. “...What have you done?”

“What have _I_ done?” Stan cried, “What the heck do you think _you're_ doing!?”

Ford bristled. “What I'm doing is what _needs_ to be done. Every simulation I've run indicates that the rift will eventually become unstable. When that happens, the only way for our world to be safe is for the rift to be in another dimension. One that can't reach here.”

“So toss it in and close the door behind it. Why do _you_ need to go?”

“Do you think I'd be doing this if it were that simple!?” Ford snapped. “Sending the rift through a portal without an envoy to see it through safely would cause it to collapse midway through, destroying both the target universe _and_ ours.” Ford looked back at the gateway and lowered his voice, his tone solemn. “This is the only way.”

“I can't believe you...” Stan muttered pressing his fists against his forehead.

“I realize what I'm giving up, Stan....”

“How could you _do_ this to me!?” Stan shouted.

Ford balked. ...He hadn't expected to hear that. He wasn't doing anything to Stan. This was something he was doing to himself. But Stan's face was contorted in pain, and Ford saw bright, translucent tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“...What do you mean?”

“Thirty years I spent trying to turn that damn thing on. Thirty years of trying every crazy plan I could think of to find the other journals or to work around them. Thirty years of worrying and working and _hating_ myself for every damn....failure....every day that passed that I couldn't get you back.” Stan was shouting, gesturing wildly. Ford was almost certain that the soft glow coming from him was becoming brighter around his edges. “...All I wanted was to get you back....to save you from that place, and now you're running right back into it?”

“To save _humanity,_ Stan!” Ford protested. “This is bigger than the two of us!”

“It's always bigger, isn't it?!” Stan screamed. “Whatever you're doing, whatever you're working on, it's always bigger than me!”

“ _Yes!_ ” Ford snapped. “This _is_ bigger than you! This is the fate of the entire world, Stan!” 

Stan flinched and drew back. “You and your dumb machines and your dumb research and your universe-destroying snow globe...” he muttered. 

“My 'dumb research'?” Ford glared at Stan.“The only reason the rift is here in the _first_ place is because you reactivated the portal!”

“So it's my fault?” Stan growled.

“I left warnings in my journal about how dangerous the portal was. You should have realized--”

Stan snapped before Ford could finish what he was saying. “You told me to _do_ something, so I _did_ something!”

Ford took a step backwards. Stan's entire body was glowing brightly. The tassel on his fez and the folds of his clothing were drifting as if blown about by a strong wind. Ford also realized that most of the machines in the room that weren't bolted to the floor had begun shaking. Stan didn't seem to notice any of this.

“Stanley...” Ford said in a warning tone.

“What else was I supposed to do? Just leave you there?” Stan continued as if he hadn't spoken. His eyes were so bright, Ford couldn't see his irises anymore. “You couldn't even thank me for it until I was _dead!_ ”

As he spoke the word _dead,_ his eyes went black. His suit split open above his right shoulder. Though Ford couldn't see it, he suspected the burn he had given his brother all those years ago had just been exposed. A theory that was supported by the line of bright white fire that reached out from that spot, spreading down his right arm to his hand.

“Stan, maybe you should try to calm down.” Ford backed into the control panel.

“I've _paid_ for my mistakes, Ford...” if Stan could even hear him right now, he was ignoring him. His voice was slowly changing...becoming deeper, more guttural. “Every day, I've paid...and it still hasn't been enough, has it? It'll never...be...enough....”

A whirlwind force was moving throughout the room. Pens, notebooks, little bits of machinery and debris were swirling through the air. Ford crouched by the control panel and held up his arms to defend himself as the full force of the whirlwind hit him. A ball of fire blew past his shoulder and burned through his coat, making him cry out.

That cry seemed to get through to Stan. As quickly and suddenly as a candle being snuffed, the brightness around Stan dimmed to a faint glow. His eyes returned to normal, and he looked at Ford with an expression of shock and horror.

“Oh, no...Ford? A-are you okay...?” he reached forward nervously. “Did I hurt you...?”

Ford pulled back the singed fabric and examined his shoulder. The skin was red, and it stung, but he didn't think it would blister.

“It's all right, it's fine.” Ford patted his sleeve until he was certain no stray sparks remained. “I've been burned worse while shaving.”

“Are you sure? ...I'm so sorry...I don't know what came over---”

“I said I'm _fine,_ Stanley.” Ford said, an edge in his voice.

Stan fell silent.

Ford sighed. “...This is why I didn't want the kids talking to you...”

“W-what....what d'you mean?”

Ford looked up at Stan. He was floating just above him, bobbing gently in place. Any trace of the inhuman aspect he'd taken on in his anger was gone. He looked...scared. Ford felt his own anger drifting away.

“Physical manifestation....minor shapechanging, pyrokenisis....You've gone from a category one ghost to a category four, maybe five.” Ford explained, as calmly as he could. He felt a little like a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis to a loved one.

“What does that mean? I don't know what that means.” Stan said.

“It's a system of classification I made...category one ghosts are fragile...their connection to our world is tenuous.” He adjusted his glasses. Calm, distancing language helped him wrap his mind around the situation. “The higher the number, the more the tightly the ghost is bound to this world. As a result, they're more able to affect it.”

“That doesn't sound bad.” Stan said cautiously. He wasn't optimistic, Ford could tell. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Maybe not, but it is.” Ford said solemnly. “Category five ghosts are almost never seen in the wild. Do you know why?”

Stan shook his head.

“Category five ghosts either complete whatever unfinished business is holding them to this world and move on quickly....or they stay behind, either because they can't or won't move on. And when they stay behind....”

Ford paused. “...They change. The more powerful they get, the farther they get from themselves. They forget that they ever knew people not directly related to their unfinished business. Their memories deteriorate. They become...simpler. Emotionally simpler. Avatars of rage, or sorrow, or whatever it is they feel most strongly.”

He reached into a pile of papers and pulled out a sketch he'd made some time ago. It was a category ten ghost he'd encountered early in his time in Gravity Falls. A suffering amalgam of shifting limbs and screaming faces. It had been horrifying to look at. He passed the drawing to Stan.

“Eventually...they become something terrible to behold.”

Stan took the drawing and looked at it, long and hard. Ford stood there, watching him for a while.

“Stan...” Ford broke the silence by reaching over, placing his hand over Stan's. Stan's body still lacked solidity, which Ford took as a good sign. “There's still hope for you, if you can let go. Listen...I was planning to wait until the kids went home for the summer. But there are too many reasons for them to go now, and far too few for them to stay. What if tomorrow I buy them a couple of bus tickets. We say our goodbyes and I send them home. Then I'll be free to take care of the rift. And _you'll_ be free. Once the house is empty and quiet...maybe you can just...let yourself pass on. Let yourself rest.”

“You still don't get it, do you?” Stan watched Ford with an unreadable gaze, a contrast to his earlier rage. Ford felt the cold, insubstantial mass of Stan's hand grip his with a gentle pressure, before phasing through his flesh entirely. “You said that the loneliness was gonna drive me mad. But I'm used to being alone.”

Ford wasn't sure what Stan meant by that, but it seemed like a hopeful sign. “Then...you agree?”

Stan shook his head. “What are you gonna do with that rift thing, Sixer? Are you sure it'll even work?”

“Of course I'm sure.” Ford frowned a little. “It'll be simple. I only need to walk through carrying the rift in this container.” He patted the specially made box on the console, padded on the inside to keep the rift from being damaged. “I'll keep it safe when I go through. When the gateway closes behind me, I'll open the case and smash the rift. The dimensional tear will open harmlessly into the void.”

Ford thought better than to tell him about what would on the other side of the rift. About the nightmare realm....about Bill. Ford had faced Bill before, he at least had a chance of making it through and ending up in one of the less hostile dimensions. Going back to the life of inter-dimensional travel he'd long ago accepted would be his until his death.

Stan nodded. He held up the sheet of paper in his hand. “Then it's a good thing I've gotten good at carrying stuff.”

It took a moment for Ford to realize what he meant. He frowned. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You said yourself, it was simple.” Stan said. “I know we can't all be _geniuses,_ but I think I can handle carrying a case and smashing a snow globe.”

“This isn't your burden to carry, Stan. It's mine.” Ford said.

“I'm dead, Ford. It's over for me. You've still got a couple of good decades before you start falling apart. Maybe even longer. ...But me...if what you're saying is true, I've got a choice between fading away and turning into this.” Stan held out the paper. “So let me do it for you.”

“That's not—-” Ford shook his head. Something was stirring in his chest, a feeling he couldn't quite put a name to. “It isn't....this is my job to do. Besides, you have no idea what will happen when the rift is broken.”

“Does it matter? What's it going to do, kill me?”

“There are things worse than death in this world.” Ford said.

“For cryin' out loud.” Stan growled. “You've been trying so hard to get rid of me, I'd have thought you'd leap at this chance.”

Ford flinched at Stan's words, startled by how much they stung. Silence settled over them like a shroud.

“...Just give it to me.” Stan said lowly, tiredly. Holding out his hand. “You _know_ this is what makes the most sense.”

Ford looked down at the case under his hand.

And that's when the walls began to shake.

“...What is that?” Stan looked around, obviously suspecting one of Ford's machines.

“It's not one of mine.” Ford said. The shack was rocked again as a loud crash came from upstairs. Ford reflexively clutched the case tighter, wary it might fall.

“The kids!” Stan cried out. He turned and swam upwards through the air, phasing through the ceiling.

Ford tucked the rift into his bag and grabbed his gun, heading for the elevator. As it slowly--far too slowly--rose to the ground floor he was certain that he could hear screaming.


	8. Left Some Teeth In Your Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a family seeks revenge.

Debris was on the floor, spread in a circle surrounding the massive hole in the wall of the Shack. Stan had emerged into the TV room just in time to see the dust settling. Just in time to hear the kids' screams fading into the distance, in time to see the backs of three flying beasts disappear over the treetops as they carried Dipper, Mabel and Soos away.

Stan stared at the patch of sky where they had just been, unable to move. Unable to think.

“What's happening?” Ford's voice snapped him out of his trance. Stan turned to see his brother running into the room, gun drawn.

“Th-they...they're gone! Something took the kids!” Stan pointed frantically at the giant hole in the wall. “Some kind of big, flying monsters!”

“What did they look like?” Ford narrowed his eyes. “...Were they brightly colored? Wasp-like? Three sets of transparent wings?”

“Three...y-yeah, I think so....” Stan said.

Ford cursed. “Damn it! I was afraid something like this might happen....”

“Something like what?!” Stan cried. “What's happening, what were those things?!”

“The beehemoth you injured on the night you died must have died of its wounds. Now its family is seeking revenge.”

“What, killing me wasn't enough!?”

“Not for them, no. Their intent right now will be to kill your entire family....” He walked into the kitchen and stuffed a few loose pieces of fruit, some granola bars and a large bottle of water in his bag. “They've likely been watching us all week, determining who was related to you and looking for an opening.”

“This...this is crazy...” Stan said, panic in his voice. “That thing I fought didn't look like those monsters I just saw...it was big and bulky...and it was like an animal. Not something that'd plot revenge...”

“That's because it was a male.” Ford reached into a drawer and shuffled around for a moment, pulling out some kind of gizmo and strapping it onto his wrist. “It was a drone. Beehemoth queens are intelligent, ruthless, and bloodthirsty. Skilled in engineering and in sorcery, and difficult to find. Fortunately, I've invented a device that can track them.”

Ford headed outside. Stan started following him but stopped at the porch, clenching his teeth as he remembered the spiritual tether holding him back.

“Damn it!” Stan growled. “I can't go anywhere!”

Ford paused and looked back at him. “Yes, you can,” he said. “Try it.”

Stan hesitantly floated forward, past the totem pole that hid the massive antennae that ended in the basement, past the line of trees and into the forest. Nothing stopped him, nothing pulled him backwards into the shack. He looked back. Ford was walking up to him.

“You're a category five now.” he said with resignation. The expression on his face unsettled Stan...he looked truly sad. “You have a greater range of movement than you'd have had before.”

Stan did his best to shake it off, to avoid thinking about what that expression implied. He grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Too bad for those things, huh? Round two's gonna end up bad for them.”

“We can only hope.” Ford said, walking forward. “...I don't suppose you'll consider staying behind.”

“Pfft. Not on your life.”

“Not even on that, I know.” Ford said, pressing a few buttons on the gizmo on his wrist. “Come on then, I'll lead the way.”

###### ...

“What's the hold up?” Stan complained, “This is the fifth time we've stopped...”

Ford was trailing behind him, sweeping the path ahead with a flashlight. They'd been traveling for hours. Stan wasn't sure how long exactly...the sun had gone down a while ago, but Stan found he could easily see in the dark.

“I know you don't need to rest anymore, Stan. But unfortunately I still do.” Ford sat down, leaning against a tree. “I'm not happy about it either...but I know from experience it's not wise to mount a rescue when I've gone more than twenty-four hours without sleep.”

“Okay...fine....” Stan said. “Just tell me where they are and I'll go ahead of you.”

“I can't tell you because I don't know yet. I need to keep studying the trail.”

“Isn't there a way to narrow down where they'll be? These things got a...I dunno, a nest or something?” Stan hovered back and forth with agitation.

“No...unfortunately no.” Ford muttered, rooting around in his bag for the food he'd hastily shoved in it when he left. “They _do_ have a hive, but I'd never managed to discover it. Don't worry, though. They won't hurt Dipper and Mabel until we get there. They'll want to kill them in front of me, since I'm the last living relative they know of. It's ritualistic, a part of their culture.”

“You are _crap_ at being reassuring.” Stan grumbled.

“I wouldn't be stopping right now if I wasn't absolutely, positively certain that they would be safe while I rest. ...You believe that, don't you?”

Stan looked at him a while and sighed. “Yeah, guess I do. All right...you get some shuteye. I'll keep watch.”

“I only need a few hours. Then we'll get right back on it.” Ford finished the last few bites of the apple he'd been eating and tossed the core behind him. He bunched his coat up under his head and lay back.

Stan nodded. “Uh...hey, Ford? Can I ask you something before you go to sleep?”

“Mmm-hmm?” Ford muttered.

“I've been feeling weird since we left the Shack. ...Kind of amped up and twitchy, like I drank too much coffee. It gets worse the deeper we go into the woods. ...Should I be worried about that?”

“You're absorbing spectral energy from the anomalies in the woods.” he muttered. “At category five, you're exceptionally sensitive to supernatural forces, and there are plenty of those out here. You might even be taking in trace amounts of energy from the rift, though the containment unit should be keeping that to a minimum.”

“Oh.” Stan was quiet for a few minutes. “Is that something I should be concerned about?”

Ford didn't answer. Stan could hear him softly snoring. He sighed and turned his gaze to the woods around him.

There wasn't much to keep watch for that night. While Ford slept, Stan chased off a couple of curious gnomes and stood by warily while a tall, long limbed creature walked past. He honestly didn't know what he'd have done if anything more dangerous tried to mess with them. He wasn't sure what had happened to him back in the basement, and didn't know how to make it happen again.

Of course, he also wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to make it happen again, but that was beside the point. When he came face to face with the monsters that had taken the kids he would have to be able to fight them, and he was pretty sure floating a couple of rocks at their heads wouldn't be enough. Whatever the consequences, he had to be able to pull out the big guns when the time came. Stan thought for a while...maybe if he could make himself _feel_ the way he had felt when he was arguing with Ford....

He glanced down at Ford's sleeping body. Stan noticed he was shivering. Was it cold outside? He couldn't even tell anymore. He felt something stir in his chest and a ball of fire suddenly bloomed in his hand.

Stan stared at it. How the heck had he just done that? Well...whatever. May as well make use of it.

He glanced at the forest floor and cleared a circle of dirt next to Ford. He floated over a few sticks and twigs and arranged them into a pile, then held the fireball against the campfire until the wood caught. As the fire burned, Ford slowly stopped shivering. A tired smile spread over his sleeping face, and Stan smiled with satisfaction.

###### ...

“...You're getting stronger, you know.” Ford said.

They'd been walking in silence for hours. Ford had woken with a start just as the first rays of dawn had hit him, a half-remembered nightmare fading from his mind. He'd noticed the dying campfire next to him as he hefted up his bag and set the tracking device to pick up the trail of the beehmoth queens. He didn't ask Stan where it had come from.

Stan turned and glanced down at him, then looked back at the path ahead. “Bad news for those bee things, huh?”

“Stan...”

“So what kind of powers d'you think I'd get if I went all the way up to ten? I'm hoping for giant flaming skulls that do my bidding...”

“That's not funny.” Ford said. “Have you been thinking at _all_ about where all of this is headed?”

“Nope. Not one bit.” Stan said brightly. Ford glared up at him and his expression changed, turning sheepish. He looked away and muttered. “Thinking about it makes me lose my nerve. So I'm not thinking.”

Ford sighed. “ _Stanley...._ ”

“What about you?” Stan turned and pinned Ford with a hard look. “Were you thinking when you were building that portal to take you and the rift away from us for good?”

Ford didn't respond, but frowned deeply.

“I'm not going to lose you again.” Stan said firmly.

“You're not being fair.” Ford said.

“How is this not fair? It makes more sense for me to--”

“It just isn't, all right?” Ford snapped.

A cold silence fell between them. Ford felt Stan's gaze boring into the side of his head. Finally, he muttered “I don't want to lose you again either.”

Stan blinked, looking shocked.“I'm dead, Sixer,” his voice was tight. “I think you already lost me. Unless you've got some kind of spell or science gizmo that can bring me back to life.”

“I've got several.” Ford said. “But they all have...unacceptable side effects. Nothing that would really bring you back as anything more than a shambling mockery of your former self.”

“Yeah. Dipper got into one of _those_ spells while you were gone. Raised a whole army of walkin' corpses.”

“...Really?” Ford raised an eyebrow. Clearly they'd found some way to take care of the undead before he'd arrived. “How did it...turn out?”

“Lemmie answer your question with a question.” Stan said, folding his arms. “What kind of genius writes a spell for making zombies down in black and white, then hides the way to kill them in invisible ink?”

Ford blinked, then slowly smiled a little. “The world's dumbest genius, I suppose.”

Stan grinned. “Good answer.”

Ford's smile slowly faded. “...Dead is one thing. I...I can face that reality. You're still you right now, Stan. That's going to change if you keep in this world. Losing you a second time would mean you losing _yourself._ ”

Stan was quiet for a while. “...Well. I'm not leaving now. Not until those kids are safe.”

“And after that?”

“After that, we can argue some more about who's going to take that rift thing through if you want. But you know it's gonna have to be me.” Stan raised an eyebrow. “Aren't you the one who was always talking about the _logical_ and _rational_ thing to do? What's _logical_ here? Sending a live man on a suicide mission, or a dead one?”

Ford didn't respond. He pretended to fiddle with tracking device for a while.

“You know,” Ford finally said after another long silence, “if you _did_ become a level ten ghost, you'd probably kill me.”

Stan started at that, then rolled his eyes. “Stop bein' dramatic.”

“No. You really would.” He looked down. “...The people who hurt them the most in life are usually the first to go.”

Stan was quiet for a while.

“...I'll take that as the closest thing to an apology I'm going to get.” he said. They continued on in silence after that.

###### ...

“There it is.” Ford pointed through the trees to the enormous structure ahead.

“Finally.” Stan felt relief wash over him at the sight of the hive. It was huge. The walls were lumpy and misshapen, stuck together between living trees and covered in weird, spooky-looking symbols. A thing like that could only ever hide in woods like these—dark, deep woods that didn't always follow natural laws.

“Now, pay attention, Stan.” Ford said, walking behind him. “They'll be expecting me, but you'll be a surprise to them. And we'll need that element of surprise if we're to have any hope of taking on an entire hive. The first thing we'll need to do is find the central chamber--”

Whatever Ford said next, Stan didn't hear. Pain shot through him suddenly, turning his vision white and sending him flying backwards towards the trees. For a moment, his consciousness turned off like a light. When he next felt aware of anything, he was hovering just an inch or two off the forest floor, lying on his back and feeling an ache like nothing he'd experienced since his death. He hadn't realized that he _could_ feel pain, _real_ pain like this anymore.

“ _Stanley!_ ” Ford hurried over to him, concern on his face. “Are you all right? What happened?!”

“Dunno...” Stan groaned, “feel like I just ran into a brick wall. No...more like an electric fence.”

“A fence....” Realization spread across Ford's face. He looked back at the symbols carved into the trees and the walls of the hive. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no....of course. I should have realized...”

“Wanna clue me in on this one?” Stan slowly rose. “What should you have realized?”

“They've got wards spread around their hive. Barriers designed to keep out supernatural creatures, vengeful spirits, things like that.”

“Great...guess that's me now, huh?” Stan groaned. “So what do we do? Can you just...rub 'em out or something? Scratch 'em out with a knife?”

“It's not that simple...there's a whole complicated process to taking them down.” Ford was pacing, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “There's no way I can disable the wards quickly enough. Not before they come out and swarm us...we'll lose any advantage we might have.”

“There's gotta be a way past them though, right?” Stan asked. “A hole in the fence? A way to dig under 'em? C'mon, use that big brain of yours, this is supposed to be your area....”

Ford didn't look up at Stan. He continued pacing, muttering quietly to himself. There was an anxious flicker to his gaze that Stan recognized. He'd seen it in his brother thirty years ago, when he'd first called him up to Gravity Falls. It worried Stan. He gingerly approached the invisible barrier he'd just been thrown back from, wondering if he could barrel through it with sheer force of will. He doubted it.

“It's the only way to get him in.” He heard Ford muttering to himself. “You can do this. It's Stan..this is different...” he murmured to himself. “You can trust him. You can trust him....”

“What the heck are you going on about, Sixer...?” Stan asked.

Ford turned and looked at Stan with a determined gaze. He held his hand out. “Stan....touch my hand. As much as you're able.”

“Why?” Stan asked

“Please. Just do as I say. Just this once, please.”

Stan swallowed the protest in his mouth. He reached out and touched his hand to Ford's. He could feel the warmth of his brother's skin.

“Now, listen to me....” Ford said. “...Thirty years ago you took on my identity. There must have been some point in that time when you had to speak to someone who _knew_ me. Someone in our family, or a colleague of mine....someone that tested your ability to act like me, or think like me.. Am I right?”

Stan nodded, unsure where he was going with this.

“I want you to put yourself back in that state of mind. Th-think about...” Ford swallowed. “Think about _being_ me again.”

Stan was hesitant. He didn't like anything about this. But Ford's eyes were pleading with him. He needed Stan to trust him and to not ask questions, and it was a need Stan found he couldn't deny.

He wrapped his hand around Ford's and gripped it, closed his eyes and thought back to an evening half a year after Ford had disappeared...

###### ...

“...Hello. Yes...sorry, I know I've been hard to get a hold of.”

Stan stared into the warped glass of the mirror. He'd been practicing the voice all afternoon. He knew he was never going to get it quite right, never going to _really_ sound like Ford. But if he got the tone and the cadence down, over the phone he might pass for Ford with a cold. That would have to be enough.

“It's a trans-universal gateway,” he said, looking at his reflection. He was wearing Ford's glasses while he practiced. It helped. “A punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. Science, science, nerd talk.” He opened his mouth and spoke as clearly as he could, trying to avoid mumbling or slurring his words together as was usually his habit.

“Okay.” he said, taking a deep breath. “Let's do this before I lose my nerve.”

He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang for a while, long enough that he began to hope in the back of his head that no one would pick up. Then he heard a click and a gruff voice asked, “who is it?”

“I--” Stan's words caught in his throat. The sound of his father's voice was a shock to his system, and for a moment he forgot why he was calling. “...Stanford. This..this is Stanford. Is mom home?”

He heard a grunt, then the muffled sound of Filbrick yelling his mother's name. A moment later, he heard her voice.

“Hello?” she asked.

“He-hey, uh, hello. Mom. This is Stanford.” Stan stammered, surprised by how much his father answering had thrown him off already.

“Oh, _I_ know who this is.”

Stan's heart pounded at the knowing edge in her voice. Had he already given it away? Mom had always known when he and Ford switched clothes as kids. Dad had never noticed, but she always, _always---_

“Mister big shot finally found the time to call his mother.” she continued. “What took you so long? I've only been calling for a month and a half. Sitting up late worrying about you, and me practically at death's door with this terrible pneumonia of mine.”

Stan felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. “You're not sick, Mom.”

“You don't know that.” She coughed a few times for effect. “Anyway, what inspired you to finally pick up the phone and return your ailing mother's calls?”

“Heh...Yeah—yes. Sorry. I know I've been hard to reach lately...”

“Lately? That's a riot.” she said. “When was the last time I saw your shadow on my door? Three Passovers ago?”

Three years? Had it been that long since Ford had--? No, Stan couldn't let himself be distracted.

“I know, I know. But I've been busy! I've been working on some really important stuff. Research, important research. I just haven't been able to find time...”

“Don't you try bullshitting me, young man.” Mom's voice came sharply through the receiver. “You're just as bad as Stanley, you know that? You'd find the time to visit if you _wanted_ to be here.” There was silence on the line for a while. “...So, have you talked to him?”

“...What?”

“Well, you asked for his address. First time in ten years you did something like that. I gotta assume you at least wrote to him. So what did he say? Did the two of you actually talk to each other?”

Stan froze. Of course...of course Ford had gotten his address from mom. How else could he have tracked him down? She's the only one who could have...

“I can tell that silence means you did. So? What happened?” Mom's warning tone came out, the one she'd used to pry secrets out of him and Ford when they were kids. “...I haven't heard from him in months. He always sends me a letter when he gets a new address, but I got nothing from him since I last talked to you. You think you can shed some light on why?”

Stan felt his heart racing...he hadn't prepared for this. How was he going to explain...? Obviously he couldn't tell her the whole truth. He could say that they'd fought, but...how could he tell her that he'd...that Ford had...hadn't even really wanted to see Stan....?

No. He was thinking about this the wrong way. He couldn't tell it the way he'd seen it. He had to tell it the way _Ford_ would have seen it.

He pushed the feelings that were swarming in his gut down. He hardened his tone and took a deep breath.

“Yes. We did talk.” he said.

“Well?” Mom replied.

“I gave him an opportunity to help me with my work. But he wasn't interested in taking it.” Stan said. “All he wanted to do was start a fight.”

Mom groaned. “What's the matter with the two of you? Why can't--”

“You don't understand, mom.” Stan interrupted, pounding a fist on the table. “He was being completely unreasonable. He wouldn't listen to a word I said. I _tried_ to talk to him, but he just threw a fit and stormed out of here like a child.”

“Well, I can believe Stanley woulda been unreasonable.” Mom said. “But I got a feeling there were two people acting like kids back there. When I gave you his address I'd _hoped_ you two might finally make up.”

“No. I gave him a chance to make up for what he did, and he threw it away.” Stan gripped the edge of the table, tears streaming down his cheeks. “He's never going to change, mom. He's always going to be the same useless, selfish screw up he's always been.”

“... _Stanford!_ ” Mom sounded surprised. Wounded.

“It's the truth. I'm just being honest.” Stan said.

Mom went quiet for a while. “I know you're angry, Ford. I know things've been tense at home. But you should appreciate your family while you have the chance. We're not gonna be around forever.”

There was a click, and the dial tone rang in Stan's ear. He slammed the phone down in its cradle and slid to the floor, burying his head in his knees and sobbing.

###### ...

That was the night he'd decided to fake his death. The night he realized that Stanley Pines would have to die so that he could truly become Stanford. The memory was so vivid he could almost feel the tears running down his cheeks.

Wait...he...he could feel tears. _Real_ tears, warm wet and salty were running down his face. He wiped his eyes. His cheek was warm. The tears stuck to his fingertips. Stan looked down at the hand that he'd wiped his eyes with.

Six fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN. I should say by the way, that in the flashback Stan's version of how Ford would have reacted to the fight was a bit harsh. It was warped by guilt, resentment and insecurity and was somewhat crueler than the real Ford would have been, hence why GG pines was a little shocked by “Stanford's” words.
> 
> Also, Stan’s being a little unfair since Ford did give him an apology back in Chapter Four. But Stan didn’t have a face to say it to back then ;)


	9. Twenty Deep Holes To Bury Them In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes become intimately acquainted with the smell of burning honey.

Six fingers. He was in Ford's body.

As soon as the realization hit him, he was forced to his—Ford's---knees. The rush of sensations that came from having a physical body again was overwhelming. He could feel the weight of his ---Ford's---body crushing him into the ground. The thousand little aches and pains of an aging frame that he'd once been so accustomed to hit him with a force he'd forgotten they could have. Stan could _feel_ the blood, warm and tingling, rushing through his –Ford's---veins. The cold air brushing against his skin, the quiet gurgling of food passing through his gut...the over-stimulation made him dizzy, and his stomach began to clench.

 _Focus, Stan._ A quiet voice in his mind said. Was it him who'd said that? Was it Ford? Dimly, he thought he could sense his brother's presence....if he concentrated... _No. Don't try to understand it. Don't self-reflect. The voice said. Just put one foot in front of the other. Get inside._

Right. Get inside, get past the wards. That was the whole point of this. _He'd never have tried it again for anything less important._ Why were his hands shaking, why were his shoulders tense? Get past the wards.

Stan hurried towards the hive, jogging awkwardly, slowly getting a feel for running again. There was a huge, open archway just ahead of him. _No, not there._ Right, of course, dumb move trying to break in through the front door. He'd get up higher, go around the side and climb, try to find a window. Lucky thing the walls of the hive were bumpy and ridged, with lots of little spots for hand or footholds. Stan was able to climb up and pull himself inside the narrow portico without much difficulty, though his limbs still felt slow and heavy to him.

As he headed deeper into the hive, he took note of the wards on the inner walls. He recognized a few of them— _why did he recognize them?--_ probably meant to dissuade intruders. They were telepathic, designed to instill fear and foreboding in the mind, to force the intruder to panic and flee. _How did he know that?_  
__  
Don't think. Keep moving.  
  
He braced himself and ran as quickly as he could. He was flooded with anxiety. His heart was pounding, his palms sweating...he told himself it was just the wards. That it didn't mean anything, he just had to muscle through it.

An image flashed into his mind from...it had to be over thirty-five years ago...the rough, crumbling brick of an alley-way, a scarred, smirking face looking down at him. _Ignore it, it's the wards_ a voice deep in him said, _they dredge up unpleasant memories. Just try to let it pass._ But the memory was so vivid. It felt so real, he could still feel the cold night air, the zip ties digging into his wrists. His hands were bound behind him. He was struggling, but the wound in his side from the broken bottle had made him weak with pain and he was forced to his knees.

Then he was home again. _No, it isn't home. It looks the way it used to._ His hands were shaking as he tried to write. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't sleep but the pills weren't enough to keep him awake any more. He needed pain, the shock to his system would keep him from dozing off. _What was this? Whose memories were these?_

He couldn't sleep, the night was too cold to sleep in now that he didn't have a heater in his car anymore. Had to keep walking to keep the killing cold from catching up with him, if he nodded off they'd find him frozen in a doorway like that other poor sap.

No, stop thinking about that. That was years ago. It didn't matter anymore. _I didn't know. It's not my fault, what happened to him isn't my fault, it was his own choices that led him there._ Whose thoughts were these? _Stop thinking, keep moving._ Keep moving, he had to keep moving to stave off the cold. _No, not the cold, that's in the past, we're past that, we've moved on._ He was running, he'd been running for so long and he still hadn't seen the sun. The plant life in this forest was aggressive and terrifyingly aware, and he couldn't afford to stop and rest. _When did that happen?_ He remembered it so clearly, as if he'd been there. But he had been there.

No, he hadn't. _Stop thinking about it._ He'd never seen it before, the other side of the portal. He'd never seen it, but he'd imagined it in a thousand nightmares in those thirty years when he was trying to get that damned machine started again. _That damned machine, that heartless thing he'd thought would be his crowning glory but it was a lie everything about it was a lie._ He'd never seen the endless, sun-starved caverns or the burning, nine-sunned skies that cooked everything below them. _He'd wandered in that desert for so long, for what felt like years._  
__  
He remembered looking up into the maw of a seven-mouthed beast and realizing he was unarmed. The taste of brackish lake water as his head was being forced under it, brought up long enough for one of Rico's goons to ask him where the money was and then forced down again. Looking in the mirror and wondering if it was really his face he was seeing, it seemed there was something not right about the eyes. Another year passed and still no progress, was it all hopeless? Was he foolish to try? The colors were wrong, the colors were wrong, the colors were wrong. Another long night of beating his head against the wall. He was never gonna get him back, he wasn't smart enough to figure this out. He missed his brother, he missed his brother, he shouldn't have held a grudge. Get out of my head, get out, GET OUT---  
  
Stan felt weightless and dizzy. His head was starting to clear. The constant hum of sensations had gone quiet--he was a free-floating spirit again, inside the hive, past the wards. He looked back to see that Ford was still on the ground. He was on his hands and knees, gasping.

“Are you---?” Stan began.

“I'm fine.” Ford cut him off. “I'm...I'm okay.”

Stan hesitated. “Ford...”

“We should keep moving.” Ford got shakily to his feet. “We're here to get Dipper and Mabel back. That's what we should be focusing on.”

Stan looked down at his brother. He nodded slowly. Getting the kids back was what was important right now. Anything else...there'd be time to talk about later.

“Let's go.”

###### ...

Dipper struggled against the sticky honeycomb cocoon that he and the others were wrapped in. He'd been pushing and pulling against the waxy substance on and off since they'd been taken to the hive, hours ago. Every time he made even a little progress, loosened the wax or knocked a chunk of the cocoon away from his body, one of the beehemoths guarding them just flew closer and wrapped him up again.

Still, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

The three of them were fixed to the wall of an enormous, circular chamber. Here and there the walls of the chamber were interrupted by an archway that led into a tunnel going who-knows where. The sides of the chamber were ridged, with ledges and walkways sticking out every few feet. There were few beehmoths perched on such a walkway a few yards away from them, apparently standing guard. They held polearm-looking weapons at the ready, and there were a number of other bladed tools on the wall behind them. Dipper really didn't want to know what those were for.

Almost everything was dripping with a thick, yellow goo that smelled a little like honey, but only a little.

Dipper turned to his left at the sound of noisy chewing. Every now and then Soon would take a bite of the cocoon he was wrapped in. He never made enough progress to get free-one of the guards always came by to wrap him up again. But that didn't seem to dissuade him at all.

“Soos, stop eating it!” Dipper scolded. “It's probably poisonous or, I don't know, filled with supernatural royal jelly that'll turn you into one of those things!”

“You make a compelling argument, Dipper.” Soos said thoughtfully. “On the other hand...” he took another huge bite of the honeycomb and shrugged.

Dipper sighed and eyed a knife hanging on the wall just a few feet away. His arm was fixed tightly to the cocoon, but he'd managed to make a tiny bit of wiggle room to stretch in. He strained to reach for the knife, but it was far too far away.

“If that knife was just a little closer...” he gritted his teeth, straining against the honeycomb.

The knife suddenly lifted itself off the hook on the wall and began floating towards him.

“Yeah, that works.” Dipper said without thinking. He did a double take as the knife floated over and began cutting him free. “Wait a minute---Stan?! Is that you?”

“In the flesh.” A low voice came from next to him. “Well, not exactly. And keep your voice down--Don't want to attract their attention right now. ”

Dipper felt himself being lifted away from the wall and levitated down to the ridge below him where he could get some footing. The knife moved on to cut Mabel and Soos free.

“Stay close to each other,” Stan's voice said. “We're gonna get you out of here." 

“Wait, 'we'?” Mabel said.

High-pitched beeping came from the other side of the hive. A series of explosions went off, sending smoke and sticky debris everywhere. The beehemoths hurried towards the commotion, weapons drawn. Dipper could faintly see great uncle Ford through the dust, firing at the monsters as they closed in on him. The guards that had been stationed in front of them left their posts to join the fray as Soos and Mabel were lowered onto the walkway beside him.

“Great uncle Ford...” Dipper said.

“He's got it under control. C'mon, we've only got a few minutes to get you out of here before they notice us.” Stan's voice said. “This way!”

“...We can't see where you're pointing.” Dipper said.

“Oh, right.” A moment passed and Stan faded into visibility in front of them, gesturing for them to follow. “After me, come on!”

The four of them crept along the walls of the hive while the sound of fighting continued below. Dipper only caught quick glimpses of Ford as he ducked in and out between the giant wasp-like creatures. He'd fire off a shot from some kind of laser gun, then duck inside a crevice only to emerge a few yards away and try again. He was drawing them away for now, but there was no way he could keep that up forever. As more and more of the bee monsters came, he'd become overwhelmed. And Stan was leading them farther and farther away from both Ford and the only exit he saw.

“Uh, Stan? The door's way down there.” Dipper said.

“We're not going for the door.” Stan said. He pointed up, to a tiny opening in the very top of the hive, where sunlight was streaming down. “We're going out the top!”

“Why does that sound like a terrible idea?” Dipper said.

“Less movin' your mouth, more movin' your legs!” Stan growled. The three of them ran, with Stan floating ahead.

“Bee!” Mabel shouted, pointing down.

“Yeah, I get it sweetie,” Stan said, “there's lots of—whoa!”

Dipper followed Stan's gaze down to where one of the beeheemoths was hurtling up towards them, propelled by the force of an explosion. Its body slammed against the chamber wall just under them. Enormous cracks formed under his feet and before Dipper could react the walkway crumbled beneath him. He was falling.

###### ...

Ford kept light on his feet. His goal wasn't to take down the beehemoths, just to keep them from getting at him, and to keep their attention away from the other side of the chamber where Stan would be guiding the kids to their exit. Once they were safely away Stan would signal him and he'd make his way to the northeastern tunnel, where they'd be able to make their escape.

One of the queens' yard-long claws swiped at his upper arm and he stumbled backwards. _Relax, breathe deeply,_ he told himself. _The pain is manageable. They have no venom in their claws, you'll be fine. Keep moving._

The chamber was rocked by one of the bombs he'd set earlier going off. He heard a loud impact and the distant sound of human screaming. Ford looked up and saw his family—Soos and the twins were plummeting towards the ground. But before he could react to that, their bodies began to glow with a blue-white light. Stan was hovering above them, straining his arms upwards as if pulling a heavy load.

Soos and the twins slowed their fall until they were drifting just a few feet off the ground. At that point Stan's arms shook and he seemed to lose his “grip.” The children fell in a pile beside him. Ford put himself in front of them, firing his weapon at the beehemoths around him while Stan floated down to them.

“What happened?” Ford cried, not taking his eyes of the monsters.

“New plan!” Stan growled, facing the crowd of beehemoth queens that was now circling them. “You get them outside, I'll keep these creeps back!”

“Stan, that's--” Ford gritted his teeth in frustration. “Fine. Kids, stay close to me. Soos, you bring up the rear.”

“All right, ya ugly bunch of bee-monsters, I've got a taste of honey for ya!” Stan raised a hand and levitated a chunk of debris off the ground sending it flying at a trio of the creatures. Two of them were slammed back and pinned. One ducked, flying forward and aiming her weapon at Stan. There was a look of alien confusion on her insect face as the polearm went through him without resistance, and without a reaction.

Stan smirked. “Sorry, toots. Kill me once, shame on you, you know?” He held his hands together until a ball of fire formed in them and shot it at the beehmoth's face. She went up in flames, screeching hideously. “Have a little _fire,_ scarecrow!” he cackled

Ford tore his attention away from the fight and to the tunnel ahead. Behind him, he heard the sound of inhuman shrieking and Stan's booming laughter mix with crashing noises and the cracking of flames. The four of them ran through the tunnels, aiming for daylight.

“Is Stan gonna be okay back there, Other Mister Pines?” Soos asked

“Don't worry, Soos.” Mabel said “Stan has ghost powers. They can't even touch him if he doesn't want them to.”

“Oh, yeah. Good point.” Soos replied.

 _Thank you, Mabel._ Ford thought. The girl's endless optimism had spared Ford the unpleasant choice of voicing his own concerns or lying.

“These tunnels are like a maze...are you sure we're headed outside?” Dipper asked.

“We're taking the scenic route.” Ford held up his tracking device. “I'm taking detours so that we avoid running into any queens or drones. It may take a while. Be patient.”

Dipper nodded, and the four of them walked on in silence for a while. Ford glanced at the wards on the walls. At least Stan would be able to get out without a repeat of the ordeal they'd endured on the way in. Those wards were designed to keep spirits and people from coming inside, and wouldn't bother them on the way out....Thinking about their trip inside made Ford's stomach twist, and he did his best to shake it off.

Eventually Stan appeared ahead of them, phasing through one of the hive walls.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel smiled up at him.

“There you guys are. You miss me?” Stan grinned back down at her.

His pose was confident and his smile looked genuine, but Ford knew something was wrong. Stan's form was thin and translucent. And there was a deep, orange glow coming from his chest, pulsing on and off. It lit him up from inside and made his ribs and sternum visible. Unless he'd deliberately chosen to look like that, which Ford doubted, it meant he was losing control over his form.

“Didn't stop all of those things back there, but definitely got enough to slow 'em down.” Stan continued.

“How many did you take out?” Ford asked.

“I dunno, maybe a dozen?” Stan grinned, “Hard to keep track when you're knockin' em down left and right like I was.”

Ford frowned. “Let's keep moving. We're likely to see more of them ahead.”

They kept moving. Thanks to the tracking device, the beehmoths weren't able to take them by surprise. And thanks to the size of the tunnel—only wide enough to accommodate one of the beasts at a time---they couldn't surround them. Once or twice a queen or soldier would appear, and Ford would stand on on side of their family with Stan on the other, and the two of them would keep the monsters back.

Stan _had_ to be feeling the drain on himself by now, but he wasn't showing it. When they found the tunnel caved in ahead of them, Stan didn't even hesitate—he raised an arm and sent the huge chunks of debris flying away from them, clearing the tunnel ahead.

“Pretty good, eh Poindexter?” Stan grinned as they went forward. “Wonder if there's a weightlifting championship for ghosts. I'd probably sweep it.”

“Save your strength.” Ford said quietly. “You're overtaxed. You need rest.”

“I'll rest when I'm dead.” Stan smiled wryly. “Whoops. Too late for that. Guess I'll rest when you and the kids are safe.”

“You won't have a choice pretty soon.” Ford said. “Keep this pace up and you'll drain yourself. Your spiritual form will become intangible and invisible until you've had some time to recover.”

Stan made a face. “Ya couldn't have told me that sooner?”

“I'm telling you _now._ That's why you need to save your energy, in case something comes up that really needs it.”

Stan frowned and glanced at the wards on the walls. He put his hand on one of them. “...You said I was absorbing energy from all the weird stuff in the woods. D'you think I could do that with some of these things? Like...fueling up?”

Ford resisted the urge to smack Stan's hand away, only because he knew he'd phase through it. “You can't just treat it like a...like a power-up! This isn't a game, Stan!”

“Do I _look_ like I think this is a game?” Stan growled. His eyes went black as he spoke, and the light in his chest grew brighter. If Stan was even aware that he was transforming, he didn't show it. “If it can help me protect those kids...”

“ _I_ can protect them, Stan...”

“And who's gonna protect you?”

“The same person who's protecting you, obviously!” Ford snapped. “No one!”

They stared at each other. Stan sighed, his eyes fading back to normal.

“We should keep moving, shouldn't we?” he asked.

“We should.” Ford agreed, his voice soft.

“Guys?” Dipper's voice came from up ahead. “There's another dead end here!”

“I've got it.” Stan floated forward and raised his arm. “Hang on--”

“No, wait!” Ford stepped in front of him, drawing a laser cutter from his coat. “Let me get this one.”

Stan actually looked relieved as Ford powered up the cutter and burned a large, rectangular hole in the wall.

The five of them stepped through and continued down the tunnel. Ford kept his weapon close as they crept forward. He didn't have a map of the hive and they were well off their planned route, so he could only estimate how far they were from sunlight and hope that he was going the right way. The humming of gigantic wings faded in and out through the walls, always some distance away. Maybe there was a chance that they could make it the rest of the way with stealth. Still, as the dim, golden tunnels of the hive became quieter and quieter, Ford knew better than to allow himself to be lulled. They were still in enemy territory. Anything could happen.

The tunnel ahead suddenly opened into a large, dark chamber. Ford held an arm out to stop Soos and the twins from moving forward, and took a few cautious steps inside. He pulled out a pen-sized flashlight and began sweeping the beam across the floor in front of him. Nothing. The chamber appeared to be empty. He turned and gestured for the others to follow him.

“What is this place?” Mabel's quiet voice echoed against the walls.

“Not sure.” Ford said, keeping his voice down. “A room this size could have any number of functions. Or it could just be abandoned.”

Ford quietly hoped it wasn't a nursery...thought he doubted that. A nursery would be better guarded. And even in the dark they'd be able the hear the wriggling of the titanic larvae in their birthing chambers. All Ford heard was an uneasy, warm silence.

“Even _I_ can't see in here. Which is weird.” Stan complained. “It doesn't feel right....Poindexter, can't that gizmo on your arm tell you how close those things are?”

Ford pulled up his sleeve to check the tracking device, and his eyes went wide. “...This makes no sense...”

“What is it?” Dipper asked.

“It's detecting...dozens, thirty or forty of them, nearby...but I don't understand.” He swept the flashlight around him in a circle, illuminating the empty walls. “According to these readings, they should be right in front of us...or...”

Without thinking, acting only on reflex, Ford shone the flashlight upwards. He immediately regretted it. The light reflected off a sea of shining eyes, glittering carapaces and sharp, naked blades. The high ceiling of the chamber was a cluster of beehemoth soldiers.

When the light hit them, they sprung into action. Ford heard Dipper and Mabel scream. He aimed his weapon and fired upwards wildly, but there were too many to take down. He felt himself being smashed against the floor, a polearm pinning him through the fabric of his coat. He struggled, and a heavy claw was wrapped around his neck.

Ford couldn't turn his head without risking decapitation, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Soos trying to shield the twins with his body. He heard Dipper screaming his sister's name.

Very suddenly, he was yanked upwards and off the ground. Now he could see Stan hurling fireballs at the soldiers around him. He was doing his best, but their sheer numbers meant he was hardly making a dent. Ford heard the soldier holding him buzz aggressively. When Stan turned, the beehmoth's claw pinched tighter around Ford's throat. A threat. It was a threat. He was being held hostage. Stan stopped firing, holding out his hands hesitantly.

Two other soldiers carried Soos and the twins over to him, holding them in a similar position. The beehmoths must have some idea of the threat Stan presented to their home. That's why they weren't killing them. For the moment, they were more valuable as leverage.

That wouldn't last, he knew. Either the beehmoths' bloodthirst would win out, or they'd realize how weak Stan was. Even now Ford could see Stan's edges going dim. He'd overextended himself. In a few minutes, he'd fade back into intangibility until he could rest, and the beehmoths would satisfy their need for revenge. Ford had to think of something before that happened.

His thoughts were interrupted as one of the soldiers snapped the straps of his pack and pulled it off him. Ford made a choked noise of protest as the creature stuck its filthy claws inside, rummaging around for anything of interest. Ford tried not to betray any emotion when he saw it pull out the padded case that contained the rift.

Fortunately, the creature seemed to have no interest in it. Unfortunately, it expressed this disinterest by tossing the box over its shoulder. Ford winced as the box clattered against the ground, but luckily the construction of the case (far superior to the plastic box the infinity die was kept in) held out. The lid popped off, but the rift looked undamaged as it rolled across the chamber floor. It came to rest on the other side of the chamber, just below where Stan was hovering.

Stan's eyes fell on it. He swayed unsteadily, glancing back at Ford and the kids, then reached down to pick the rift up. He held it in his hands, like he was testing the weight of it. Then he looked back at Ford again and smiled. His smile was warm...sad. Even a little...sheepish? Like an apology...what in the multiverse was he---?

Ford understood what was in Stan's mind a split second too late. He opened his mouth to cry out just as Stan crushed the containment chamber in his hands. A bright light began to fill Stan's body, and Ford pressed the twins' faces into his chest, holding them firmly so they wouldn't see what came next.

The light filled Stan's form until his features disappeared, and his outline began to warp and change. He grew bigger and brighter, and Ford caught a glimpse of something forming in the light. A huge, many-faced thing, black as burnt flesh, its body curled around a beating, glowing heart...Ford couldn't look at it anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard the beehemoths buzz in confusion and distress, and then...there was a terrible, terrible noise. Ford felt something warm and dry brush past his face, very close. Then he felt himself falling to the ground. There was a terrible, terrible silence. Ford slowly opened his eyes.

Every beehemoth in the room was lying dead. Most of them in pieces. The sticky-sweet scent of their blood was everywhere.

He released the squirming children and walked over to the broken containment unit on the ground. It was empty. The rift was most definitely gone.

“Grunkle Ford?” Mabel asked, approaching behind him. “Where's Stan?”

Ford touched the tracking device on his wrist. He adjusted it to detect the presence of ghosts. Nothing came up.

“...He's gone.” Ford replied.


	10. But The Past Draws Us Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ford goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist of all the songs that are quoted in all the chapter titles. It may well be the darkest, saddest "joke playlist" ever made: http://8tracks.com/thesnadger/unfinished-business

_“...Aleynu ve'al kol yisrael, ve'imru amen.”_

Ford quietly muttered the last words of the kaddish, his head bowed, his hands folded behind his back. He didn't know if Stan had come back to their father's religion before his last days. Probably not—Ford knew that he certainly hadn't in all the years since he left home. But he didn't feel quite right just dropping the flowers on Stan's grave and leaving. And the prayer gave him something to say. Something to fill his head with when he didn't know what else to think. Perhaps that was one of the functions of prayers.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of Stan's grave stretched over Ford. The twins had insisted that his monument be as big as possible. A tall, stone obelisk that towered over Ford's head, framed by carved cherubs in bowler hats, smoking cigars and rolling dice. Thorny, rose-covered vines were carved into the slab, spiraling up the sides and coming together to meet at the top, where a fish-like symbol matching the one that had been on Stan's fez was engraved. The inscription, which had been a collaborative effort between himself, the twins, Soos and Wendy read:

  
**Here lies Stan Pines**  
February 15, 1954 - August 22nd, 2012  
Devoted Brother  
Awesome Grunkle  
Gruff But Lovable Father Figure  
Crappy Boss

Ford took a deep breath, turned, and began his walk back to the bus stop. He still didn't feel comfortable behind the wheel of a terrestrial car. Even if he did...driving Stan's car probably wouldn't feel right. At least not yet. Maybe after he'd re-taught himself the basics of driving and grown more comfortable with the whole idea.

The ride back to the Gopher Road stop was quiet. This time, Ford didn't encounter anyone who had forgotten that Stan had died and mistaken Ford for him. Or worse, who'd remembered that Stan had died and still mistaken Ford for him. He still had bruises from that farmer who'd attacked him with a rake after shrieking that he was an unholy revenant.

By the time he'd reached home, the sun had gone down. The house was dark and cold. Ford walked in and closed the door behind him, entering the den and facing the center of the room.

“All right. I left you flowers,” he said. “Now can I have my notes back?”

There was a moment of silence, then Ford heard a click come from the corner of the room. The safe that he'd built into the wall decades ago opened, and the door slowly swung open. Just as he'd expected, the notebooks that had gone missing from his study were stacked neatly inside.

Stan never spoke anymore. Not in words, anyway. Ford had tried almost every method he knew of contacting spirits, but wherever Stan was now he either couldn't or wouldn't make use of Ouija boards, of crystal balls or automatic writing. That said, he always found a way of making his desires known. And if Ford was slow to meet them, he wasn't above hiding his things from him.

Ford could only theorize about what had happened to Stan. He could only imagine how much power Stan had absorbed from the rift. If he ever found a way to measure it, he suspected he would have to re-evaluate his entire system of ghost classification to describe what Stan had become. A category fifteen, or twenty...or maybe higher. Ford would have thought that much power would have destroyed him, erased him from this world.

Once again, he'd underestimated Stan. But his brother had still paid a price...as far as Ford could tell, Stan was now one with the Shack. He'd fused entirely with the one location that held enough meaning to him in life to call him back from oblivion. The house that held his pain and joy for thirty years was truly his home now.

“One of these days,” Ford said, “I'm going to take a high-powered laser cutter to that safe, then where will you be?”

There was a slow, low rumble through the house, one that Ford had come to recognize as laughter. They both knew he was bluffing. ...The last time Ford had tried to use violence to circumvent Stan's pranks was a year ago, when Ford's nightmares had gotten to be too much for him and he'd started drinking himself to sleep on a regular basis. Stan had sealed up his liquor cabinet, and no amount of pulling had been able to force the doors open.

Ford could have gone into town to buy liquor, but it had been the principle of the thing. He resented being kept from his own things in his own home. Even more than that, he resented the implication of Stan's actions. When Stan refused to open the cabinet, Ford had taken an axe to it. And immediately regretted it. When the wood cracked under the blade, Ford's heard something...no, _felt_ something. Like a silent, wordless scream...whatever it was, Ford felt how much pain was behind it. He was immediately filled with remorse almost identical to what he'd experienced after burning Stan's shoulder all those years ago.

The cabinet repaired itself, the wood healing over like a scab. But Ford still knew he'd never take a weapon to anything in his house ever again.

Ford blinked as he realized that the lights had turned themselves on. He'd been standing in the dark room, lost in thought for several minutes. A moment later, the television had turned itself on as well. There was a movie on that he vaguely remembered from his childhood....what was is called? Planet of the Vampires?

“Not now....” he muttered. “I have too much work to do tonight.”

The television changed channels. An episode of Nova was on now. From the kitchen, Ford could hear popcorn popping in the microwave.

“Stan, I said no.” Ford yawned, covering his mouth. “I'm too...” he trailed off as his eye caught something on the screen. “...Oh, come on. That's not how solar power's supposed to work. You'll never get the full potential of it unless you compensate for the temperament of the eldritch abomination slumbering inside the sun's core.”

He sat down. He had to admit, the easy chair was very comfortable. “I suppose I can't blame them, though, given the limitations of their equipment. Did I ever tell you about the flare riders in Dimension 130-Y? Now _they_ had some really advanced equipment...kind of a death wish, too, but still...”

Ford wasn't sure if Stan was really listening as he rambled off the technical details of solar energy collectors and converters, but then, he probably couldn't have been sure of that even if Stan was still alive.

###### ...

Several episodes of Nova later, Ford felt himself nodding off. He briefly considered going upstairs to bed, but the effort it would take to climb the stairs didn't seem worth it. The easy chair was comfortable enough, and he had fallen asleep in far worse circumstances.

He was starting to identify a feeling he'd been having for a while. One that nagged at him with it's unfamiliarity. He was...comfortable. He'd become comfortable here.

He'd gone thirty years resisting natural human instinct to put down roots. Getting attached to a place or to the people in it would only make things harder when he inevitably left for another dimension, and another, and another. Leaving was what he did. It was something he'd become good at—the ability to sever all attachments to the world he was in, to the people who were in it, and prepare to accept whatever his new reality would be. Even after Stan had brought him home, on some level he'd been ready to leave from day one. Ready for the inevitable severing of ties.

He didn't feel that any more. He was putting down roots here. He'd come to accept and to truly _believe_ that he would stay in dimension 46'\ until the day he died. A day that would likely find him right here, in his house. Maybe even in the chair he was sitting in now.

And when that day came, he knew who'd be waiting for him. Whose face he'd see before they went off to whatever comes next. Together.

Ford drifted off to sleep, barely noticing the blanket that was slowly pulling itself up over him.

###### ...

Stan Pines was happy.


End file.
